Fantasy Seiunita IC

[Nogoodname]

The large winged beast didn't take too kindly to being surrounded by the orks, it backed away frightfully looking like it was ready to leap up into the air at any moment if they got too close. Emilia ran a hand along it's back in order to calm it somewhat, she herself wasn't too apprehensive of the group, while the orks had garnered a reputation to be rather.. unpredictable these ones didn't seem to be in the mood to cause her any harm. She lifted a hand to her mouth to suppress a laugh as the black ork, who she presumed was the leader of this little party, quickly gave his companions some swift discipline. The orks were such a simple people, she found it adorable, and somewhat admirable how a simple smack on the head or trade of blows was enough to resolve any personal issues. No grudges or hidden feelings just smack each other around a bit, make up, then get on with life, very different from how things were back home.

She watched as the black ork seemed to struggle with her writing, fearing she might have to resort to some other method of communication. Luckily it seemed there was someone in the group at least who could understand her writing, and she gave a nod of confirmation that the message was understood properly. The knight listened to the black orks explanation and smiled thankfully, pulling a small cloth from her pocked to wipe the board clean so she could write another message, this time she took great care into the structure of her writing just to make things easier on her mediator. When she finished she turned the board again to read "Heading to Spirebluff Street, silver delivery overdue, name's Emilia". She felt it was proper to introduce herself to the group, besides, she had nothing to hide from them.

archur

 

[BubbleButt]

Reijingu & Ningyo
After a short while of laying in the blood stain on the dead grass of the Darkness Kingdom, Reijingu got up from the blood stain on the ground. Ningyo had just woken up from being unconscious, getting up and looking around at her current location. She would then proceed to stay behind Reijingu, without expression. She really didn't want to follow him around, but she had no choice. Reijingu would begin to make his way out of the small town that they were currently in, Ningyo not far behind him.

"The Dictator assigned us a contract to kill a politician in the Light Kingdom by the name of Marutei Tsurunen. He's been very supportive of the Light Kingdom's religion. It will be a crippling blow to their kingdom if he is killed." Ningyo explained all at once while they were leaving. Reijingu hadn't liked the idea of traveling to the Light Kingdom on foot, but there wasn't another option. Ningyo would have rathered to do this herself, one less person to compromise her, but she wouldn't want to disobey The Dictator.

They began to walk North, in the direction of the Light Kingdom, the journey would take months.

For now, they would get out of the town they were currently in.

"Why do they look so intimidated...?" Ningyo would ask, confusing Reijingu. He would then remember the inhabitants of the little town.

"That's because of me." Reijingu replied

"Why would they be scared of you?" Ningyo asked, a little bewildered.

"Because I lost control once..." Reijingu had said, replying to another question.

"What's it like?" Ningyo asked, throwing questions persistently

"It's like breathing in smoke, only you're enjoying it" Reijingu had said in a poetic fashion.

"Then, when you suppress it afterwards, it balls up in your very soul until it manifests in to a craving. Then you crave to let it loose so much that it hurts."

They had made it out of the town and started to go North towards Elysium.

1 Month Later...

They had made it in to the Fire Kingdom, unscathed by any wildlife that could have appeared. They'd been walking for a month now, only stopping for necessities. So far they only had stopped to rest 21 times, which means they made good progress.

Ningyo didn't like the Fire Kingdom all too much, she could only recall the bad memories. There had been plenty of times where she had to kill an Ork because they'd thought she was "A lihl too prettehy" and attempted to rape her, all they got out of it was blood everywhere and a rotting corpse on the ground. She despised them and thought they were filthy creatures.

Reijingu on the other hand, thought Orks were tough guy wannabes, who thought they could take on anyone. Reijingu had proven them wrong once, back when he still was fueled on complete rage and hatred. He had massacred tons of Orks and had gotten away with it. Suprisingly, they don't even remember what Reijingu did to them, proving how low their intelligence can be sometimes.

They had passed through the village with ease, no resistance shown. The only problems they really ran in to was the heat and the Orks' personalities, which was very... rage inducing at times.

The Present...

Reijingu and Ningyo had walked to the border of the Light Kingdom, at least close to it. They were in a bush near the road towards the entrance, patrols and sentries stationed sparsely, trees would semi-cover the area, showing that they probably don't plan on expanding the Kingdom any time soon.

Before Reijingu could even think of what they could do, Ningyo had already grabbed a guard approaching the bush, ripping his esophagus out to keep him from screaming. Reijingu would pause at the shocked expression of the guard, struggling for life before giving off a calm face following his death. They would leave his body inside of the bush to make sure nobody saw it.

Reijingu rushed from tree to tree, only moving when he was absolutely sure nobody had been looking in his direction. Ningyo would follow, cautiously making sure she didn't get caught while following Reijingu at the same pace as his. They had made sure to keep in eye contact with each other in case something went wrong.

After switching between cover to sneak past the patrolling guards, they reached the gate that led in to the city. 2 sentries had been stationed, standing near the gate on the outside. They were having a conversation about the Dark Kingdom, and how much they had despised it. Suffice for a distraction, they would be too busy looking at each other instead of an incoming attack.

"Tengoku No Ikari!" Reijingu said as he quickly glided towards one of the guards, attacking him with a flurry of blows, standing over his lifeless body afterwards. Ningyo had been behind the other witnessing Reijingu's attack and quickly used her Koro Ken to punch the other guard in the back rapidly, covering her fist in Killing Intent. The other guard would quickly fill up with gaping holes during the attack and would slowly crumple to the ground, blood gushing out of his wounds. They would both look at each other for a little while before rushing in through the gates before Patrol Guards would spot them.

"Murder!" One of the guards screamed in shock, finding the two bodies a little while afterwards.

 

[archur]

Ghazzy Crashasmasha
Spirebluff Street, Fire Kingdom

Heaving a sigh, the exhausted Black Ork prompted his readin' boy to spell out exactly what she wrote again with an aggressive point towards her black-slate board. "Uh... 'eadin' ta Spirebluff, silvah gubbins di'n't get ta pansyland fas' enuff, an' da lass's name is 'E-meel-e-ah'. Das' wot it sez boss." "A silvah delivery eh? Awight." He slung his waterskin back over his shoulder, and shouted an "OI!" at the boyz to get their attention. A simple twirling of his finger while pointing upwards in the air was all he needed to get them back into order. That was the sign to group up, or regroup in the Black Ork order, and Ghazzy wasted no time to teaching these wild boyz a thing or two about 'taktiks' and 'dizzaplin'.

"Ehf ya whont ta get inta Blakkrokk fer yer silvah, oi sugges' comin' wif us. Dem guardz got nuffin' bettah dan to jus' let people ehn. Dey gonna mess wif ya, an' if dey haven' 'ad a foight, try an' kill ya." He looked her up and down quickly, analyzing and evaluating her predicted worth as a warrior. Reaching a quick conclusion, he continued on. "Now iz ain' sayin' dat you wouldn' 'ave trouble foightn' dem, but yoo'll 'ave trouble takin' on da legal system fer foightin' da border guard. Dey'z reel pain ehn da arse." He beckoned his grot to approach him so he could rummage through the pack it carried. He flung out a few bits out, metal pieces, burlap sacks with questionable contents, the average orkish officer's belongings, until he found the spare waterskin given to him courtesy of the Dark Kingdom. It was made of leather, unlike his own which was made of squig. He placed this in one of the runt's hands as he searched through and found another bag. This one was clearly labeled with orkish glyphs, which looked a little like a fist which was next to a rectangle with two parallel (or as uniform as an ork can produce) hollow bits adorned with little spikes on top. "Squigordz." He muttered to himself. He smirked, and then pressed both items to the knight's chest.

"Dried meat. Water. We walk to the kingdom. We'z got enuff fer ya bird too." The overburdened carryin' runt hefting his master's pack over his shoulders, struggling to stand upright stood at attention, standing only a few feet shorter than most of the other boyz. Ghazzy looked to his assembled squad, all 21 of them. "Da name's Ghazzy by da way. Noice ta meet ya." He gave her a genuine grin before donning his keffiyeh once again. "Awight, let's get movin'." With that order, he urged the knight to follow him through the sandwurm infested desert. It might be a little more dangerous, as anything was with the orks, but then again she was traveling with orks, which the prospect itself was also dangerous. But the spike plated greenskin had a little sense to him that would be easy enough to understand, holding commonsense within his thick skull, something that didn't seem all too common among all the races.

-x-

They made it past the wurms easy, having only had to fight 3 on the way over, and only having to cut their way out of two of them. The last one was scared away by the griffon. They had lost 2 orks to the sandwurms, but they would turn up eventually. They were easy enough to get out of if the adventuring party had serrated blades, but if they didn't, oh well. Good riddance. Ghazzy had to fight five at a time in order to fully become a Black Ork for his training, and look what good it did him. He was carrying out the king's errands of delivering letters and guiding couriers to find whatever irresponsible drunk was the reason for the light kingdom in meddling in their city. What the hell do the twits want to do with silver anyways? It was worthless in his eyes, and a easy business for those who mined and sold it. Terrible material. Didn't even shine as brightly as gold did, but gold wasn't really all to useful either, only really kept by the orks who wanted to embellish themselves in their own snazz. If only they could use their egos to beat down others.

The guards were easy to convince as well, having pinned one against the wall with his halberd, and only asking for entrance a total of seven times before the pitiful excuse of an guard passed out. They needed to be replaced some time soon, this system wasn't working for Ghazzy. He meant business, as he always did. He built a reputation around Blakkrokk to be the one who wouldn't drink, but would certainly be the one who would set you straight if you didn't comply. Leading the knight past Flamepass to Spirebluff, he spotted a black steed with wings that sprouted from its back. He was here.

"Oi, E-meel-e-uh," He sounded out, the name and words unfamiliar in his mouth. "Mefinks we're here. Careful, da dark king seems ta 'ave taken a visit 'ere. Musta been da note." He alerted to Emilia. He took a long look down the familiar street. It was the business central for the Fire Kingdom, so a lot of trade and deals were struck around here, which was ironic considering the foreign policy on people entering the city. That's why people like Ghazzy existed to get people inside without a toll, or quick use of a free pass so the next time was rougher. Damned bureaucrats.

He dispersed his mob of boyz to go drink at the bar a little bit down the street, which had a few patrons enter to go see something. Surprising, how Warboss Grimgutz was able to sustain such an amount of alcohol in his system without dying. That's what that sign always meant, and that almost always meant more unnecessary work for him. He didn't want to deal with that after a grueling journey through the desert. He let Grodruk deal with it this time, he usually was a good sport about it anyways. "Oi, girlie, I really dun' want ta deal wif da king sinz I jus' dragged 'im outta dat bar befor' I left dis hole. Mind if ah tag 'long fer ya task? Fink of eht as a favor, das sumfink dat yoo'z lumen folk do fer each ovva roight?"

Nogoodname​

 

[Elephantom]

A WEEK AND TWO DAYS AGO
In the heart of the Neruf desert, smack in the middle, is an oasis of admirable span and a supposedly mythic origin — the embellishment could solely be credited to a couple of self-contradicting rumours spread around by little grots, likely during their more stagnant days. The distance to the oasis — which is topped to the brim with barren terrains and vivid sorts of semi-medicinal cacti and fungi, and not a single sight of any sort of well — is also of admirable nature, and as such, the place is largely avoided by the surrounding localities. Only the most placid grot, lacking in brain and the common sense to ask for directions, find themselves straying towards those forsaken lands. Most don't return, and those who do, later die from passive heatstroke.

In truth, aside from the circulation of rumours, the oasis is more resembling of the dregs of unmolested swamps and molested moats rather than a picturesque body of water surrounded by lush, scenic tropics. The water is scarcely not algae-infested, and as a result, it bears a dark green shade, with a visible tinge of teal. It is said to bring to mind the dull, sickly green skin of the Frimin fern.

The Frimin fern's appearance, as alleged by many known traditionalists and superstitious folks, is so hideous and its colour so strikingly malicious, that it often strikes men who look at it with a withering, quick-acting plague. The eyes burn out of their sockets with painstaking leisure, while the souls wrench and writhe, great pain engulfing the innards, in its moment of ultimate disintegration.

The greenery of the Neruf oasis constitutes of weeds and wiry bottle-green bushes that stretch all around the fragmented lake; the plants reach up to the height of men, nearly almost six feet in height the reeds as tough as wooden sticks, but not sharing its ability to create fire; no animals reside there, only slithery langorous worms of disreputable nature and morose bacterial infections. These insects, and these plants, and even the water itself, have foundations so ill that they're unfit even for wasting — lest they pollute the ground — much less eating.

By chance, Jean and his men found themselves stranded in this despicable region.

“What in thunderation!?” Jean grunted, thumbing the rounded bottom of a half-skinned cacti, before tossing away its golden liquid. Specks of the amber liquid tainted the bleached lands of Neruf, soon blending into the sand and away from sight.

Jean then slammed his palm against the ground, covered wholly by glimmering sand, as if to emphasize his point. “Give me another shot of this vicious cat-lap, you cur, and I'll have off with your hea-”

“Salope,” Sven interrupted, regarding his emphasis with a scornful yet restrained glare. “I believe it was your idea at first, sir, to traverse this wild locality.” His tone was sharp and painfully tart.

The ex-apprentice mage was lacking in a bandanna and a hat now, his face clearly visible; Sven possessed a lithe, somewhat angular, given effect to by an aquiline nose; he had shrunken cheeks that tapered smoothly along the sides of his forehead. His dark, somewhat handsome face had grown a rather thick stubble in the past few days, that veiled his finely sculpted chin. This fact certainly seemed to distress the blackhand.

“You dandy prat! It was the old grot- it was an old grot- who gave me the fucking directions!” Jean quickly diverted from the meat of the topic, and of which he was to blame for — truly a great taint in his swashbuckling reputation. He was bewildered, his usual prudence and subtle audacity tossed out in favour of verbal haymaking. There was a silver lining, though, for the former king was spared from the hairy fate of his companion, as he had already stocked up on a good ton of soapy fat.

“Doubtlessly, sir, you've been crossed.” Sven dryly snarked, averting his eyes from the direction of Jean and concentrating on the rest of the cactus juice. It was terribly bitter, each sip forcing his lips to pull back ever so slightly and his face to cringe, but it was still better than nothing. Part of Sven's anger stemmed from the fact that Jean was unwilling to share his resources, the soapy fat that's so necessary for shaving.

“You dare question the integrity of my decisions, bastarde!?” Jean exclaimed, strongly baffled and delusional. He promptly stood out from his previously squat position, his stance seeping with harsh defiance and convictions.

“Here,” The former king added, his voice sharp and dry. “let me lighten the weight of your tongue!” Without any pause or hesitancy, showing absolutely no sign of his usual grace and subtlety, Jean leapt up from his seat and lurched after the slightly dumbfounded Sven.

The darting Jean crashed headfirst into the stomach of Sven, hands wrapping around his back. Sven was quick-witted enough to not let his lithe pair of hands fall victim to this manoeuvre — he shifted them upwards, letting the hands just grab his back. The two tumbled together towards the sand, struggling over the upper hand, and onto the face of a dune — the end face, the hind, which led down to a ridiculously sloped slant. Afterwards, what happened was more a flotilla of high-strung violence rather than the two-man intrepidity-filled battle royale that one could've imagined it was.

Jean and Sven rolled on the warped ground, not a care for their surrounding, exchanging several half-hearted blows.

They both landed on a pile of thick quartz shards, knocking some sense into the two. Rather literally. Their armour was hardly punctured, the thick leather able to repel the effects of the eroded quartz, but their faces suffered lacerations of median scale. Jean and Sven both backed away, with speed that rivaled that of the mountain felines of the eastern countries, growling like how bearish animals would. Jean's was more wilder, more devoid of civilization, while Sven carried his usual nonchalant tone — more a compulsion that came out of unwilling habit than active practice.

The two launched after each other, their prominent fists spiking ahead in an absurdly straightforward gambit. Both bumped into each other, their fists shaking enough vibration into their heads to knock them out.

Thus, they remained unconscious on the flat ground, under the broiling visage of the Sun.

They would've died if not for a shallow-minded grot that was passing by.

PRESENT DAY

“This is a grave time, your Grace, very grave time,” Jean said — there was an exquisite hint of an accent, of eloquence and elongated vowels, in his voice. It resembled the gothic speak of the blackhands, and the finespun Elysian orthodox. “Enough to warrant your attention- your undivided attention- and the attention of your neighbouring comrades.”

Unbeknownst to Jean, Sven and Kzath had both retreated to the far end of the throne room, near the gate, squabbling over a ten silver bet. Kzath bore a baffled expression, while Sven appeared mildly amused — it was, to the likes of Jean and most other men, hard to properly figure out Sven's emotions, for he possessed a near-still expression at often all times.

Jean, and to an extent Grimgutz too, likely had better things to do rather than eavesdrop upon the pair of sly weevils.

“We share similar interests,” Jean said, grasping his velvet-veiled hands together. “We seek to take advantage of this war.”

“But,” The former king added. “Setting aside all these tedious pandering, which I believe you dislike too- I require a certain amount of amnesty, a bit of immunity in your language, and in return, I supply you with resources that you orcs don't quite have-”

Jean gestured towards the oblivious Kzath and Sven. “Blackhands- masters at espionage and other forms of subterfuge.”

Jean looked back at Grimgutz, eyes steady. “Think of it as a humble business deal- chief to chief- to ascertain the integrity of our hopefully fruitful allegiance.”

Sven strode up to Jean, whispering in his ears a few couple of words inaudible to even the most shrewd grot. Of course, this was part of Jean's wily plans, for they could've easily communicated with their hairsplitting hand gestures — the gambit puts a sort of confidence in the one who's being played.

“I fear I must exit now, your Grace, I'm needed elsewhere,” Jean said. “I'll be at the prancing squig, if you require me.”

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Lord Walter the Bastard

The Fire Kingdom​

A mysterious band of ten armed men traveling on foot were sighted trying to gain entry into the city gates, but they were quickly barred entry by an ugly-faced Ork captain and his little boys. The men and Orks were briefly involved in a heated argument where nothing seemed to be going anywhere. From what could be gained from their frustrated conversations, one of the men was threatening to end world hunger by turning all the Orks into mushroom soup for the poor while the Orks threatened the men to either turn back or be turned into mashed potatoes.

Finally, hotter heads prevailed and one of the men stepped forward and stabbed the Ork captain in the face, killing him instantly. And soon the rest of the men followed and massacred the rest of the Ork boys before anyone else could notice. This was bad, soon they realized that if anyone came walking by and saw the mess they made then the entire city guard would be running after them. These fools had just passed the point of no return.

"What the fucking hell were you thinking, my Lord?"

"I didn't mean it! My sword hand slipped and I accidentally stabbed him in the face."

"My Lord, you have doomed us all with your idiocy."

"The Ork was a stubborn bastard who would have killed us anyway. I just made him more open-minded by putting a hole in his head."

For a while, they quarreled among each other about this incident until one of them said that nothing could be done and they should pretend nothing happened. They cleaned their swords and wiped their clothes off first before stepping right into the city and heading straight into a little bar down the street called the Prancing Squid.

"Let's grab a drink here before meeting up with my pal, Grimgutz. I need to rest and gather my wits first. The journey was too long and the sun melted down whatever intelligence was inside this brain."

"I don't think it is wise to waste any time here, my Lord. Let us depart for the Ork king immediately and say what we have to say before he finds out what happened back there."

"No, this time the palace is surrounded by Orks and we probably have no chance of entering without having a violent confrontation with the guards first. Besides, I know Grimgutz visits this bar from time to time, and we could bump into him here when he's in a good mood and not acting all kingly."

There were seven men seen taking their seats on one corner of the Prancing Squid, all of them armed and casting suspicious glances around the room. They were not the most subtle kind of people around here, on the contrary, they seemed to be the most noticeable lot in this place.

 

[Nogoodname]

Emilia was more than happy to travel with the group, and pleasantly surprised to be given food to accommodate her and her griffon on the trip as well! Who said orks don't have had no hospitality? She gave a thankful smile and a bow towards the black ork who she now knew as Ghazzy and before long the group of them were on their way. The journey through the vast arid desert was a long one, Emilia was already struggling over the intense heat of the desert practically mopping sweat with her brow with the end of her cape, if only she had the forsight to wear something lighter for the journey, she lamented herself for her lack of planning, sure to never make a mistake like this again. At least she left her armor at home lest the poor knight would be cooked alive by the heat.

The knight walked with the rest of the group in relative silence nursing her own waterskin and guiding the griffin, she wouldn't ignore anyone if they had questions, in fact she would relish some conversation after the long and boring flight, though it seemed that most of the gang had lost their initial interest in her after a while. The altercation with sandwurms was quick work with the help of the handy Black Ork and his men, and though she had never fought a wurm specifically this wasn't her first time fighting a creature of it's size. She helped where she could and they seemed to get past the wurms without much concern, well, much from Ghazzy at least. Emilia couldn't understand it, they had lost two men in the fighting and yet the black ork hardly seemed to notice, did they care that little for life? If so a lot of things suddenly made sense to her about Ork culture.

Luckily the rest of the trip was peaceful enough and after another rather brutish show of superiority the gang was in the city. Emilia furrowed her brow at the Orks warning taking a quick look around, just why would the king of dark show his face around a place like this? She had assumed that even the Orks would refuse to do dealings with someone so repulsive and vile. The knight made sure to keep her wits about her, the king of dark in a place like this only meant trouble, who knew just how many other cretins of the dark could be hiding in the shadows?

She was snapped out of her thoughts as she realized the two of them now stood alone in the city streets, the rest of the gang seemingly dismissed, their duties fulfilled. A smile crept across her expression at Ghazzy's request and she answered with a simple nod. The Black Ork would be nice to have around, he obviously knew the city much better than her, plus if something were to go wrong there was strength in numbers, but most of all she had simply taken a liking to the kind Ork. It was true he had done a lot to help her in her travels already, if he wanted to accompany her longer she wouldn't mind in the slightest.

The first order of business now was to find the smith to talk to about their order, she put a hand to her chin and looked down the street curiously without any sign of the business. The chalkboard came out once again and she hoped Ghazzy would be able to help, orkish names wouldn't be too hard to translate right? The board read the name of the smith she was after, one "Goktaz Scrappah" written as clearly as she could matched with a quizzical expression, hoping that the Ork knew where to find this smith before they had to go around exploring.

archur

 

[archur]

Grimgutz, Fireslayer of the Great Fire Kingdom
The Prancing Squig
​

"Subtahfooge?" Confused, subterfuge wasn't in the orkish dictionary. Neither was the word for sneaking, or hiding. Simply put, orks never really did that, the closest synonym to that called 'BEIN' AH ZOGGIN' COWARD.' He began to ponder what the strange new word meant when one of Jean's 'Blackhands' (Which he personally felt was ripped from Black Ork, which is pretty much better than whatever 'subterfuge' these blackhands could employ.) started to commune with the graying man. The king started to lean forwards in curiosity before Jean startled him with a “I fear I must exit now, your Grace, I'm needed elsewhere,”

This man clearly wasn't right in the head. "Hol' up now." He began to say before Jean interrupted him again with a "I'll be at the prancing squig, if you require me.” He began to rise out of his chair, but then thought better of it. He didn't pay this guy yet, plus if he gave him what he wanted, he would be left alone from whatever machinations he might just have. Still, he got out of his throne to shoo him off, while he brushed his hands down his armor, the creaking and lurching of the metal plates whining to be repaired. Though he knew that he should, he put it off. Scars, and therefore damage to armor, looked good in the orkish sense. It showed how tough one would be. In fact, in his previous crawl, one would be measured in how many scars one had before they were let in. Yes, the Salty Spittoon was quite the place. At least until it was demolished by a group of assassins in an attempt to kill the king. Shame, good waste of a perfectly fine facility.

"Pracin' squig eh?" He chortled to himself. "Jus' annuva eckskoose ta get sloshed." He began to chuckle. It seemed that being king wasn't all the fighting that it was cracked up to be. Just a lot of pointing and yelling. He wished he could go back to those good old days, where the fight was plenty, the music was good, and the lads were ones that you would remember for the rest of time.

With the call of his servants, he shed his armor. Helmet, gauntlets, breastplate and all. He instead chose to go out in his casual attire, his pajamas. A large shirt that was ragged and baggy, stretched around his torso from when he first got it, muscles seeming to burst from the fabric. He donned a black cape over it, which was magically burning with cold deep blue flame around the edges. Despite it being called the Fire Kingdom, he really didn't want to set his own fortress on fire. Besides, he had payed quite the fortune for that spell on the advice of his financial advisers, who didn't want to cover for the damage. His pants were simple burlap, nothing too fancy, since they mostly got dirty from what he did when he wasn't listening to the sparse court hearings and the varying antics that an ork with his type of power could pull off.

No, he didn't look kingly, but he was comfortable, so that was all he was really concerned with since he was meeting his friend. With that set up for himself, he strode out from his chambers so he could arrive at the Prancing Squig. Already, he spotted the familiar black pegasus of the Dark King. Nodding contentedly to himself, he entered the bar, which was already packed full of interesting people. Towards the back of the room, he noticed the vampire, the Dark ruler's presence causing most other boyz to steer clear of him. Gutz pushed his way past the orks milling about and stumbled over a few hewn wooden tables and chairs before he was able to fully seat himself directly in front of the fellow king.

"Oi Desh." His attention was quickly averted by a human waitress appearing before the two. "Welcome to the Prancing Squig! What'll it be this time?" The Fire King was a regular, but Desh really wasn't. "Ah'll 'ave da Burnin' Wish." He ordered. "Yoo've got any fahvorehts or wot? Ah've got a few persunahl fahvs if yoo'r lookin' fer some. Da menu's up front." He promptly explained to Desh.

shadowz1995​

 

[archur]

Ghazzy Crashasmasha
Goktaz's Mek Shop

"Oooooouuuuuuuuhhh..." Ghazzy said as he verbalized his confusion. He had learned what orkish glyphs meant, a different language completely from what other kingdoms had used. Common literature didn't exist in the Kingdom, and with the works of literature that did exist in the Fire Kingdom was mostly located in Redstone settlement, so most orks didn't really bother to try and bother to learn it lest they were a burna. Frustrated from trying to make sense of the shapes, he caught a passerby by the shoulder. "Oi, read dis else ah'll 'ave ya shown to da king." The word of a Black ork is something to be feared of, and the king when he finds that you have used your free pass sees that the hearing would end quickly before he got bored and crisped them.

The human quickly blurted "Goktaz Scrappah!" Before he ran into an alleyway. Shrugging, put two and two together. "You wahnt Goktaz. Ah've got yer Goktaz. Come on." He waved her along to walk with him down Spirebluff. The street was lined with smokestacks that soared high above the cobbled iron buildings. They walked down the middle of the street, mostly avoided in a large bubble by the passing crowd that always was occupying the busy space of Spirebluff and neighboring streets.

"Leah." He began. Leah was an easier nickname for the strange 'Emilia' name that was introduced to him hours ago. "Ye can't speek eh? Das why ya got da board?" He questioned. He didn't want to prod her as to why, that's why he kept it at 'that's why you have the board?' He knew that plenty had lost things during the war. Himself, nothing. But he knew a few personally. His own king, he knew something was up with him, why he drank so much. That's why he put up with him. Boundaries. He knew where they were, or at least he learned them when he crossed them.

Then, they arrived at the shop. The sign was adorned with glyphs that showed the lower half of a jaw, smiling almost, teeth still attached. A spanner was also shown in a separate glyph next to the other, signifying that it was a smith. "Awight. We'ah here. Do what'cha need ta do."

Nogoodname​

 

[shadowz1995]

In a very similar fashion, Desh was dressed casually and comfortably. A thick, long cloak that reached his thighs made from dragonhide. Specifically, a shadow drake. Often regarded as one of the most powerful dragons to exist, if it wasnt the most powerful already. Black as the darkness Desh commanded with gold worked into the hems. A similar article was worn upon his legs and nothing else. There was no tunic to conceal the demon's toned, hard muscle just under the greyish skin. He wasn't as heavily scarred as the Fire King but his scars certainly weren't few and they told a story of his own. The fresh one over his eye beinh the newest addition. If his physique wasn't enough, the archdemon practically radiated power. It was why everyone in the bar gave him a wide berth. Most didnt know who he was but they knew he wasn't to mess with.

Deshwitat's long, ashen locks whipped around as his head snapped up towards the tavern entrance. The feeling being burned to a crisp was nostalgic as Desh's wide smile greeted the fiery behemoth. (I know he isnt literally on fire. Its the aura he gices off. All rulers have it)

"Oi Grim. Hope you don't mind, now that you're here and all."

As Grimgutz ordered his drink, Desh ordered the same thing, knowing that the Ork wasn't one for weak drink. With everything going on in the Dark Kingdom, Desh could use the good stuff. But now that the ruler was here Desh could REALLY be himself. The side of him that only his closest friends and family knew.

Gutz was that close of a friend but he respected the ork more than anyone. So, it was only natural that Deshwitat stood and took a massive breath. With the slow exhale, its like everything in the area exploded with a rise in pure, unchecked power. Giant black wings grew from the man's back along with the horns of an archdemon upon his head. A series of incredibly loud bone cracks would be heard as the archdemon streteched his wings out. At full span, it practically took up the entire tavern. A look of euphoria passed over the lord of darkness before the wings quickly folded in on themselves nicely upon his back.

The now, fully released archdemon slumped into the chair heavily in exhaustion. "You have no idea what it is like to have to keep all the power and energy in check like that. Well....actually you probably do."

"So Grim, how have you been? I haven't seen you since we nearly destroyed a quarter of the Earth Kingdom in our little one on one. What made you have that poor human write me such a pretty, well-written letter?"

The Dark King was all smiles at this point, as if not noticing that every person in the tavern was shivering in terror at the magnitude of power Desh was releasing in his absolute full form. One could wonder if everyone in the fire kingdom felt that spike in power.
​

Nogoodname archur Elephantom Historical Storyteller

 

[The Faceless King]

Rolen Galenodel Pt.1​

A week and two days ago:
The air in the room was warm and still, the only sound carried in the stagnant atmosphere being that of the gentle popping caused by the open fire. This small lounge, possibly the smallest one in Rolen’s estate, was normally an eggshell white, but the only light now came from the open hearth, sending everything awash in an orange glow. The shadows cast around the elegantly furnished room seemed to dance to the beat of the crackling fire, but Rolen paid no mind to their indecent parading. Currently, the Flame Genasi sat on a greyish-blue, velveteen loveseat, which he lay sprawled out comfortably on, reading a book titled “Smooth Sailings and Even Smoother Sailors.” It was a fairly basic nautical romance novel, its only purpose now, being to help Rolen pass the time while he waited for his courier.

For most, this would have been a rather tense moment. After all, everything Rolen had been working too for the past ten years had been leading up to this exact point in time, and now all of that hard work was riding on the shoulders of a single slave. Granted, they were a rather competent slave, one of Rolen’s best even, but they were a slave nonetheless. Still, despite the gravity of the situation, Rolen seemed completely at rest. His face showed no signs of agitation or even anxiety, the delicate and light brown skin was at ease, resting over his slender jawline and pronounced cheekbones, its blemish free surface cast in the gentle orange glow of the hearth’s flames. No scars or pockmarks tainted his skin, not even any nervous sweat to ruin the mascara he wore.

His eyes – which in their entirety were charcoal black save for the pupils, which held semblance to pools of molten gold – scanned the pages before him, reading with detached amusement as the raunchy scenes played out in his mind.

It was inhuman, how separate from the situation Rolen seemed, but then again, the man was no longer human. He had given his humanity up years ago and frankly, he felt he was better off without it. Humanity was such a filthy and dirty thing, worthless even. Yet, as Rolen found his mind wandering away from the passages he read, there was a sudden moment of discomfort that struck him, causing the Genasi to look away from his book in search of the cause of this obtrusive and uninvited feeling.

It was at this moment in which Rolen found his eyes settle on the shag carpet resting in front of the fireplace. It was strange, really, for such a mundane object to be what the Genasi decided to accuse as the perpetrator of this foreign feeling. Rolen himself even found it quite odd that out of everything in the room, from the grandiose paintings, the beautifully upholstered couches and the exuberant flowers in ornate vases; it was this simple carpet that Rolen’s attention immediately snapped to. However, it was not just his attention that this carpet seemed to capture; but his disgust too.

Though his face did not give away the general displeasure coursing through him, Rolen could not help but wonder why he ever even bought such a worthless furnishing. Truly, the Flame Genasi must have been out of his mind to even consider something as appalling as shag. Though, giving credit where credit was due, Rolen noted that the color was quite nice; an even slate grey that lay without disruption or unnecessary pattern. Completely flat and calm, the tacky carpet reminded Rolen of a blank canvas, something for the flames in the fireplace to paint their light upon. Still, he would need to be rid of the ghastly thing before it caused him any more disruption.

Letting out a low sigh, Rolen set his novel on the couch, marking his page with a bookmark, before moving away from the carpet, taking his place in front of the picture windows on the far side of the room. He folded his hands behind his back, starring out over the Redstone settlement. The place was not much to speak off in Rolen’s mind, the occupants of this area were nothing but common troglodytes living in ramshackle hobbles and squabbling in their own filth. Still, it was a quieter area than most and there was some civility amongst the denizens, so Rolen tolerated their squalor.

As Rolen’s gaze continued to shift around the settlement and it’s housing, he eventually caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window. Taking a moment, the Genasi began to admire his own reflection, looking at the fiery red roots of his mane, the tint changing to a stunning golden yellow at the end. After but a second of pointless grooming, and finally satisfied with the current state of his hair, Rolen’s attention shifted to his garb. As always, the white robes he adorned were exceptional and wrinkle free, the silky white fabrics flowing evenly over his slender and lean frame only to be cinched at his midsection by a red sash. Moreover, while the robes flowed freely, the white jinbaori over them held its shape and rigor, the golden embroidered shoulders keeping everything steadfast.

On the cuffs of his robes – which reached about midway up on the forearms – ornate gold filigree wrapped its way around red bracers. These bracers, along with the golden pendant hanging from his neck, had been a gift from a duke that Rolen had once saved from public execution. Though he detested the politician, the Flame Genasi was fond of the man’s choice in personal ornaments, and wore the gifts regularly.

Reassured that he still looked as dashing as always, Rolen turned to move away from the windows and planned to resume his spot on the couch, only to find a figure, who had not been there before, now stood on the shag carpet

They wore an ash grey cloak, the sleeves of which drooped low to the wearer’s knees. The material appeared light, weightless even as it flowed seemingly on its own accord, giving the wearer a spectral presence. Atop their head, they wore an off-white turban of what looked like muslin cloth, the ends of the headdress wrapped firmly around the figures face, exposing only their eyes, which gave off an intense unblinking stare, the green irises – which contrasted nicely with their tan skin – focused on Rolen and Rolen alone. Their pantaloons, which matched the color of the robes, were bound tight at the waist with a white cord, while the legs seemed slightly baggy; the ends pushed into the figures black leather boots.

Rolen forced a smile, and though it was a devilishly charming grin, there was a certain unnaturalness to it that was disturbing.

“Habi, perfect timing as always.” Rolen’s voice was smooth and rich as he spoke, unwavering and calm. There was never more emphasis on any one word, each lilt subtle and hidden.

“I trust you have been successful in your mission?” Rolen asked, taking a few steps closer.

Without making any noise or removing their gaze from Rolen, the Sibbi Mamuri raised their right arm until it was at a ninety-degree angle.

The robe’s long sleeve fell away, revealing a black gloved hand holding a rather large urn. The urn in itself was entirely onyx, silver filigree forming spirals and ornate patterns on the edges.

Without hesitation, Rolen removes the urn from the Sibbi Mamuri’s hand and tucks it into his own grasp. “Fantastic Habi, as always you have proven your worth. Now tell me, have your sisters and brothers…” Rolen’s voice trailed off, but Habi bowed in acknowledgement nonetheless, seemingly understanding the Genasi’s intent.

“Good. Now if you wouldn’t mind.” Rolen brought his hand up, grasping the slave’s face. He closed his eyes as he watched Habi’s memories fly through his mind, viewing dark alleyways, a nervous looking merchant, a burning building, a slaughter, blood and finally, something resembling soot. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rolen erased the memories, their final resting place being in his mind.

“Thank you Habi. You may take your leave for the night. Though, be ready early next morning, I have more assignments for you. Sadly we are going to be short staffed for the next week or so.” Rolen sounded slightly annoyed at the prospect, knowing he would have to go to the market again soon.

After bowing deeply to their master, Habi turns to head for the door. The silent footsteps matched with the robes they wore gave off a phantasmal presence, something the Sibbi Mamuria were trained to have. Easily, they pushed the door open, bowing to the Eunuchs on either side of the portal before continuing down the hall.

Rolen did not move for a time, instead simply starring at the urn. His eyes glowed brighter than usual, a thinly veiled intensity now taking over the Genasi’s gaze. He finally had it – or the first of it anyway.

With a long, drawn out sigh escaping his lungs, Rolen moved back over to the velveteen couch and sat down. He allowed himself to sink into the cushions as he felt the warmth of the hearth’s flame wash over him. Closing his eyes, Rolen began to drift into a sleep he had not realized he wanted so badly, and just as his mind began to fade into dreams, the faint sound of footsteps roused him.

With a curious expression, Rolen sat upright on the couch, turning his gaze to the source of the noise. He watched, albeit confused, as a mangy brown dog limped into the room, settling itself onto the shag carpet Rolen detested so.

For a moment the Genasi starred, stupefied, trying to imagine how such a lame dog could have even breached his house’s walls, before he recalled about two weeks ago when he was in the market. He had been shopping for something at the time – though what exactly eludes him – when he had seen the broken animal lying on the side of the road. At the time, it had resembled nothing more than a pile of mangled fur, but its faint and wheezy breathing had given away its true nature. And though he wasn’t sure why, Rolen had forced one of his Eunuch’s to carry the beast back to the manor, giving the body guard instructions to pass onto the Shariha for how to care for it. Looking back on it, Rolen could not explain why he had requested the dog be saved. Quite possibly, it had reminded the Genasi of a younger version of himself, scrappy and out of place, living on the streets of the Fire Kingdom with no other place to go.

Rolen chuckled quietly to himself for a moment at the absurd thought; empathy after all was not in his repertoire of emotions. Most likely, it had been the same mental disease that had possessed him when buying the shag carpet the beast now lay on. Both things were of equal tackiness, and Rolen detested the two even more so now that they were together.

Shaking his head, Rolen leaned back into the couch, watching the dog through half-lidded eyes.

As the Genasi sunk back into his seat, the fire in the fireplace suddenly picked up, beginning to burn with more ferocity. The dog laying on the shag carpet, only a couple paces away from the flame, slowly brought its head up, looking to the fire and then to Rolen, whimpering in fear. “Stay.” Rolen’s voice was quite, yet its presence held all the authority of a king. The dog stayed.

Laying back down, the mutt’s head now rested on its paws. It seemed at peace, paying no mind to the fire ragging mere feet away, or the intense heat now singeing its matted brown fur.

For a moment, Rolen admired the flames he had created, watching hypnotized as the orange tongues of fire began to leap forth from the hearth, slowly ensnaring the dog and the carpet in its maw. The Genasi gave a short grunt of contentment, before his eyes fully closed, falling asleep to the sounds of a raging inferno.

 

[Nogoodname]

Emilia watched in surprise and realization of their predicament as the Black Ork barked at some poor passersby to read her message, this may be a bit of a problem, without their mediator around anymore the knight had no real way of talking to her new friend. Such a shame, she had many questions to ask about the orks! She rarely left the kingdom as in the words of her order, 'her talents were better suited within the walls of the kingdom', though Emilia knew better than this, she knew it was because she was the youngest of the captains. The Dragon Guard was a small and closely knit order, they were family, and while the comradely was appreciated Emilia felt that they could be just a bit too protective at times, maybe this little mission was a blessing in disguise after all? Maybe she could find some free time to explore the fire kingdom, see what it had to offer, nobody would notice if she was just a day or two late in returning home.

But now wasn't the time to plan that sort of thing, that was for after she sorted everything out. Her attention turned to Ghazzy and his question, simply answering with a nod and a light shrug of her shoulders. Her muteness wasn't something she had too much trouble with, the people of Elysium were rather literate especially in the capital. Though this never seemed to stop people from tip toing around the subject, some people were simply too sensitive, she admired the straightforwardness of the fire kingdom.

The two of them arrived at the workshop without much trouble, Ghazzy's company already proving itself very useful, in fact it was shocking just how much of a liking she was taking to the Black Ork so quickly. He definitely wasn't your average dumb brute, he was kind, accommodating, and though he did have a quick tendency for violence he was far from the tales people told in Elysium of aggressive, mindless oafs. Hell, she could name a few nobles that were more like the Orks she had come to expect.

As the they entered the building Emilia's eyes scanned over the workshop to see shelves upon shelves lining the walls with strange and complex devices placed haphazardly along them. Some of which she could sort of tell what they were meant to do, others she would.. rather not know.. Workbenches stood along the back of the shop in an area behind the counter with various tools scattered over them along with what seemed to be more of these deadly contraptions, most of them unfinished. Emilia approached the counter towards a rather surly looking Ork, a thick and incredibly smudged pair of goggles and a protective apron covered from top to bottom in scorch marks set him apart from the average Ork in terms of attire. He waved to the two of them as they entered "ay! Wot can ah do for ya?" He asked, to which Emilia responded with her board. She started with a polite apology and that she knew this was all probably just a misunderstanding before explaining that the shipment of silver the Dragon Guard needed was running late and she was here to check on it's status. The knight held up her board with a smile, certain this would be a simple fix. Goktaz replied with a tilt his head and a "wot?"

Needless to say what should have been a simple check in would take much longer than she anticipated. The knight quickly found that their smith didn't read any language she knew, not a lick of it. Instead she took to more creative ideas, she drew two crude castles to represent the kingdoms and an arrow as the shipment, getting just half way before stopping with a question mark, She drew a few bars with question marks around them. Slowly but surely Goktaz began to get the message until finally Emilia learned that the order still hadn't been sent. With a sigh she managed to arrange for the order to be sent, Goktaz promising he'd send it off by tomorrow morning.

Finally leaving the blacksmiths shop, the knight was happy to be done with her little mission. She wanted a drink, and looked to Ghazzy before gesturing to the Prancing Squig to see if he'd join her. If so she'd appreciate it, if not he probably had more important matters to attend to anyways, either way she made her way towards the bar. It was then that she felt something, a dark energy that caused the knight to pause and look around her surroundings, it had only been for a brief moment but she knew exactly what the sensation was. While she had never been the strongest caster she had been exposed to enough dark magic already to know how it felt, especially in such magnitude, her hand palmed over the pommel of her sword as she scanned the nearby area before letting out a breath. Whatever it was she couldn't see it, and with so much power in such a brief amount of time it was impossible to determine where it came from, the knight would keep on her guard from now on though that was for certain.

Entering the bar Emilia immediately discovered the source of the power as her eyes fell upon the demonic visage before her. On instinct her hand went to her side to draw her steel before she forced herself to stop, the demon was... smiling, chatting with what appeared to be an old friend of his. He wasn't harming anyone... even though it was clear he could definitely take on everyone here at once. The strange occurrence left the knight standing, stunned, in the doorway as she eyed the beast. This had to be the dark king, that would explain the immense power she felt, but why was he so.. pleasant? She almost couldn't believe her eyes, why would such a foul evil spend his time in a bar like this reminiscing?
shadowz1995 archur Historical Storyteller Elephantom

 

[Roleplay Skittle]

Cassiopeia
Dark Kingdom Royal Gardens

Despite the sun being high in the sky, the Dark Kingdom was shrouded in gloom. The unrelenting blanket of somber clouds and ceaseless fog only serving as an incessant reminder that these lands had been a blemish to the rest of the world, and that no one had wanted them, just as no one had wanted the beings that now inhabited them. Even the castle grounds could not escape the grim touch of the ever present darkness and mist which spread over the royal gardens that were not so much vast as they were bountiful, leaving them in bleaker shades of greens than they otherwise may have been. Despite the somewhat ominous atmosphere that was ever present, the external gardens were a veritable jungle of well-maintained, exotic looking blooms that would have been vibrantly bright colors in better light, some as large as an average Humanoid's head and others larger still. Water was a precious resource and every drop needed to be distributed with careful consideration, so there was more foliage and less grass with vegetation of only the most hardy varieties because despite being a kingdom lacking a proper water source and acquiring fresh water primarily through trade, the royals still needed a place to be at leisure as well as to entertain guests and visiting diplomats, they weren't savages after all.

The grounds around the greenhouses were virtually silent save for the sound of the wind rustling the leaves on the various plants that grew there and the somewhat disturbing call of a native bird, which sounded like a cross between a goat's bleat and a child's scream, occasionally echoing from an unknown location. The real hustle and bustle was occurring in the interior gardens, long cylindrical shaped buildings of glass which contained orchards, vineyards, forests, and any other type of vegetation that one would expect of a garden in practically any of the other kingdoms. Flowers and plants that had a harder time surviving harsher environments were carefully tended to here and flourished in the humidity that accumulated in the structures.

The glass buildings spanned miles of land, as was necessary in order to produce even the minimum amount of food that was necessary for a kingdom to survive on, and even still, more greenhouses were being added in anticipation of the imminent war. Everything in these structures was borrowed, even the dirt. Cassiopeia paid painstakingly close attention to the details to ensure the success of each crop and plant, as food was not her only objective, herbs for medicines were as well and given the rarity of some of the plant species native to the Dark Kingdom, Pia had taken it upon herself to procure, breed, and grow these special plants in hopes of the king’s people being able to offer them as a lucrative trade for other things the kingdom would need more.

The demoness of light could be thought to be on nothing more than a leisurely stroll as she sauntered through the gardens, not really appearing as though she were one with duties to attend to instead seeming more like a bored maiden seeking something to entertain herself. With one of her delicate hands loosely holding a few strips of the cream colored fabric that made up the skirt of her gown, she swayed gracefully as she wove without apparent destination throughout the exterior gardens, her bare feet stepping lightly and her arms extending elegantly every so often to offer a light but affectionate touch to any number of the blossoms she passed as she went on her way. She had basically forgotten she wasn’t even alone as she sauntered through the gardens and it wasn’t until the attendant that was loyally following her with the cart of fruits and vegetables spoke that she was removed from her idle thoughts of nothing in particular and forced back into reality.

Pia released a soft little whine of annoyance at the fact that her dreamy state had been interrupted and somewhat roughly tossed down the edge of her skirt that she had been swinging playfully, “do you not have things to attend to other than following me around like a lost puppy?” the harsh tone of her words was somewhat diminished by the sweet sound of her voice as she turned her back on the attendant and continued on her way, “take the cart to the kitchens with strict instruction to save the seeds, intact,” while it was much more difficult to collect seeds from the citizens of the kingdom, at least she could ask of those that lived in the castle to save the seeds which were worth just as much as any precious metal, even if many would not recognize that. It may have been that Pia had a sentimental attachment to the plants she had placed so much effort in growing, but these lives of green were like her children and none that diminished their importance would escape her ire.

 

[Juju]

After bidding Pia farewell, Nidaria turned to gaze upon the scattered remnants of the court. By now the majority of people had filed out, with a few delegates gathered in clumps of political jabber and gossip. Her green eyes danced around the room before she finally found the one she was searching for.

It never took that long to spot him in a crowd.

Wade was easily distinguished by his black robes and that bizarre mask with its exaggerated front, making him look more like an oversized bird than a Royal Advisor. The demon himself was no less peculiar than his outlandish garb and was widely agreed upon as an eccentric. During his years of service he had cultivated a fine infestation of rumours concerning his origins and daily activities. The castle’s occupants were strongly divided when it came to what was under the mask, with the kitchen boys swearing that he be a human in disguise, whilst the servants of the upper floors arguing that there is nothing but black fog behind the mask.

He was strange, to say the least, but maybe that’s why Nid enjoyed his conversations so much. Wade was a puzzle and despite his claims of a bland past, Nid was determined to fit all the pieces together some day. Besides being interesting company, the demon was also a sound adviser and an irreplaceable asset. Twenty years ago he had single-handedly developed the cure for a nasty plague that swept through the kingdom, saving thousands of lives. Thanks to his impressive skill, the casualties sustained had been minimalized.

At present, the kingdom’s previous savior was standing a little ways from king’s throne, almost awkwardly so. It was nothing new.

“Wade West.” Nidaria called out to him as she strode across the throne room, the inky tail of her skirt dusting the polished tiles. Once she had drawn closer to the masked man she allowed herself a smile for her masked adviser. “I require something of you.”

She motioned for him to follow as she made her way out of the throne room and into the right wing of the castle.

“I’m looking for one of your magical artifacts, a videre to be exact. Do you have one ready for use? I would like to have it with me during my visit to the Lightning Kingdom.”

Dreamtique

 

[wtfamidoinghere]

Outside The Royal Greenhouses - The Dark KingdomIra Calfacio

After an eternities worth of training, Ira was now tired. He decided it would be best if to go for a walk to clear his mind.

"Taking a walk might've not been the smartest idea" Ira said after letting a hefty sigh. As it turns out, taking a stroll makes you think about whats going on, who knew?

"It's fine Ira, don't waste your time fretting about shit that won't happen" Ira asserted. However, he couldn't help but ponder about possible situations that could happen in the near future.

Several distinctive war scenarios began to surge through Ira's head. Each one getting progressively worse then the rest, like a nightmare, except he know this could be reality.

My company was sleeping while I was keeping watch. Several days of hard fought battles against the light kingdom had drained me of any stamina and left me a hollow shell of what I once was. "They are just so much stronger then before" I muttered. At the spur of a moment, an immense amount of light energy came from the sky, heading straight towards my party.
I gathered whatever energy I had left to stand, but it was like grasping straws. I attempted to use a spirit projection of my palm to block the attack, but there was no mana in this region, and I was all empty! Then abruptly, the light began eviscerating everyone.
I woke up later, I couldn't tell how long it had been. All I knew was two things. One, that everyone I was supposed to lead died. And Two, that there was a man in a scarf standing over me. "A left over...Disgusting." He proclaimed. Then he raised his quarterstaff, a blade of light materialized. I closed my eyes and held my breath... When suddenly!

Ira stopped day dreaming after walking straight into one of the many sturdy trees in the dark kingdom.
"Damn it!" Ira yelled while kicking the tree into 2 new ones. In a second, Ira caved in and fell on his knees.
"Will I stand a chance..." Ira murmured.

Fog began to blanket the entirety of the area.

" Oh that's just great, just what I needed!" Ira remarked ironically while picking himself up. Ira began to look around to find out where he was, when he realized that he was outside one of the Royal Greenhouses.

"Wait then that means these buildings and trees belongs to.... Fuck." Ira said under his breath, with an anxious face.
Ira rushed to find where the trees landed, and found to his displeasure, that both of the tree pieces had broken through the glass of the Royal Greenhouse.

A chill had run through Ira's spine. He hesitantly turned around and what he saw was a sight worse than any scarfed man could ever give.

"...."


Roleplay Skittle ​

 

[BubbleButt]

Breen
The bloody teen hit the wall, covered in bruises and grotesque cuts. He would try to escape the man beating him down only to be pressed back against the blood covered wall by none other than Breen. Breen had lost his cool ever since the start of his interrogation, but he had to figure out where the missing Priests had dissapeared to and who may or may not have hidden them.

"Where? Where are you hiding them?" Breen screamed in the young man's face, still grasping his shoulder. His voice echoed through the alley as his interrogation startled eye witnesses.

He didn't say anything in response. Suddenly the kid started to gasp for air as he struggled in Breen's grip before he dropped to the ground, wide eyed and a blank expression. He died, son of a bitch! Breen took a deep sigh before spotting a liquid colored purple, oozing out of the carcass's mouth. He poisoned himself, or that's how it appeared to happen anyways. He's probably from the Dark Kingdom if that's truly a poison, however, he could have entered the Dark Kingdom and stole the poison as well. There were plenty of possibilities for him to ponder in this alley, but they're not his top priority. Right now, he just needed to get away from this corpse.

He left the body on the ground to rot and left the alley, still frustrated of the boy's death. Only a select number of people saw the body before running off in complete fear. He replaced his glasses on the bridge of his strained nose before proceeding to continue walking down a random sidewalk, not caring where it led. This was Breen's life, following leads until he reached dead ends, only to repeat the process and hope for a different result, the definition of insanity at it's finest. You could consider him a hero, or you could consider him a psychopath, but he wouldn't care about it. All he really cares about is that the Light Kingdom stayed in check, because nobody else is willing to get off of their ass to do it.

He continued down the street, only for a brief but considerable moment, before leaning against the wall of an old blacksmithing shop to think. Was that really a poison? Was he really dead, from poison at such specific timing? What was going on anymore?... There were too many questions running through his head, for now, he decided to go to the Fire Kingdom, clear his thoughts with some old brandy from the Prancing Quig

Present

It had been a full year, yet he still came back to the same place just to think. The Priests were found slaughtered in separate locations, a symbol branded to their chests before being hidden, as for the teen, he was was only a distraction. The boy was poisoned and branded with a burn mark before being sent out to the open world, sent to face death. The poison would be injected in to the heart, continuing to inject a continuous but moderate amount of poison that would combine with the blood pumping out of the heart, that way the kid wouldn't die until the time was right. The heart would only pump lethal amounts of poison when the body was under too much stress and would end up giving the kid a panic attack before stopping from the amount of poison that had been inserted in to the blood stream. They had apparently known about Breen's "methods" of interrogation and used the poison as a failsafe in case Breen had found the kid. Breen had gotten him killed when he didn't deserve it... it-it wasn't right, it was sick, cruel at the very least. Ever since then, it became a cold case, a mystery that had been lost to time, he was the only one willing to stay on it and avenge the victims, despite the lack of reward in the end. He was definitely having trouble with determining the suspects of the case, but for now, he would stay in the bar to clear his mind with more booze, continue searching the Fire Kingdom tommorow, then move on with whatever leads he may have.

WHOOSH

He jolted his eyes open in utter shock, lifting his head from the table almost immediately at the cold chill of death kissing his neck before passing by to do the same to other bystanders. He hadn't felt something that possessed such utter power before, unless there was-...

He turned his head slowly to see a large figure, sitting in one of the chairs of the Prancing Quig.

"What the hell is that?!?!" He screamed outwards with a raspier voice, making his tone very harsh. The crowd had glanced at Breen for a little due to Breen startling them via him screaming at the top of his lungs with a shocked expression attached to his face, but became disinterested and resumed to stare in complete silence at the large, demonic figure instead. Breen stood up from his chair, grabbing his dust-covered glasses off of the dirty, old, wooden table and proceeded to wipe said dust off of them and put them in front of his widened eyes. He had realized what was going on, while at the same time, he had no idea. A figure of such power... in the Prancing Quig? What's going on? He seemed to be non-hostile, speaking to an Ork of some sort. Breen proceeded to assume that he was just overreacting, but for what reason would he disperse such dark energy, was a reason beyond what his investigation skills could give him. Hopefully, he wouldn't stop to notice him, despite him screaming all the way across the Quig in a unmannerly tone. He struggled with tearing away his gaze but managed to sit down back in his seat and wipe away his shocked expression.

He would stare down the table, thinking of any possible suspects related to his previous thoughts that had been interrupted by the large and powerful figure.

"The Dark Kingdom is the main Kingdom for getting poison, but there would be no motive..." Breen said quietly to himself while succumbing to habit and rubbing his chin in confusion. He often said things out loud, that way he could have thoughts in two different places and overall make him feel like he has more room in his brain to organize his thoughts. The suspect would have to be a thief then, stealing poison from the Dark Kingdom, but if the suspect wasn't from the other Kingdoms and was working on his own plans...

"That would make him... Kingdomless?"

"That's impossible... the only Kingdom this guy could belong to was the Dark Kingdom, it had to be it..." Breen pondered to himself quietly while rubbing sweat droplets from his forehead.

Breen continued to ramble on to himself, trying to reason with his own gut instincts, zoning out in to his thoughts in the process. He proceeded to think about his plans on where to follow his lead before he inevitably hit another dead end.

"Alright, it's settled then. I'll go to the Dark Kingdom in about a week and get my answers there, it's the only way they could have gotten the poison." Breen said, albeit with a slight tone of doubt and regret in his voice and a grim expression, showing his utter exhaustion.

He returned to drinking his bottle of booze, hoping it would help him, but it would only end up letting him down and making him a mindless drunk later on.

shadowz1995 Nogoodname Historical Storyteller archur Elephantom

 

[archur]

Deshwitat, Grimgutz, and Emilia
Prancing Squig​

Deshwitat, the king of darkness, was genuinely surprised when his golden eyes flicked towards the entrance. The very girl he had sent his assassin to gathet information about stood before him now. "If it isn't Lady Emilia. Captain of the Dragon Guard. The monster slayers. I hope I've made your job easier over the years." The demon inclined his head respectfully before regarding her. She was alarmed, tense. Every muscle in her body seemed to be primed for combat.

It was just then that Desh realized that Elysium has probably been sticking to their, 'darkness is the root of all evil' motto and Deshwitat L. Rubdich was the literal personification of everything evil. This young platinum blonde probably thought something similar or worse since she has been combating the ones that cant be helped.

"I can assure you only half the stories you heard about me and my kind are true."

Emilia's eyes widened as she was nearly immediately onset by not only the new face, but a demon who she could only place as the king of the dark who not only acknowledged her, but acknowledged her by her full name and rank, she looked down in realization that she probably seemed rather threatening at the moment, her hand hovering over her blade. Taking a breath to calm herself she relaxed her shoulders and held a finger up to Jean to ask for a moment, the demon king demanding her attention, she llifted her board to mark down her message, holding it up towards him. "How do you know my name?" it read. Though the knight stuck out like a sore thumb in her casual attire, a dark blue cloak that flowed to her waist held around her shoulders by golden buttons, beneath which she wore a white coat and brown trousers. She still didn't expect to be known all that well outside of the kingdom, especially by the king of the dark.

The dark king chuckled lightly, "If there is one person this entire world should fear, its the woman who lays in my bed at every night."

He cleared his throat before his expression turned serious, business-like, "I sent one of my personal assassins after you to scout and survey. A shape shifter. Maybe you saw a bird hanging about for a long time. A random civilian. Possibly even a puppy of some kind. He has taken a liking to that one."

The demon paused a moment to let her soak in that she was being monitored for a long time and could have been killed at any moment at his word. That was never a comforting thought.

"Reports came back, along with any known history of you and I concluded you weren't a threat. You a very kind young woman who tries her hardest at everythinh she does and has been led to believe that everything that is dark is inherently evil and vile."

Another pause.

"Your job has become much easier as fewer and fewer 'monsters' are found threatening your kingdom. The reason being because most of them are living peacefullisy within my kingdom. But I understand that there are those beyond hope. I had to execute a goblin today who raped and killed a young dark elf. Then raped her again because she was still warm."

"So thank you for handling the cretins that are out of my reach. I hope you gave them agonizing deaths."

The knight furrowed her brow, she didn't like the fact that she, and her order, were being watched by something from the dark. She would have to talk to the others when she returned to make sure it wouldn't happen again. The dark kings words angered her, she hadn't been lead to believe anything she knew what she saw, demons were vile filth that attacked the innocent people of her kingdom.

She took a breath to prevent herself from getting too worked up, she would not fall for any lies the demon king told her, he was trying to confuse and anger her, that was his plan and she refused to be a part of it.

After she was calm she wiped down the board with her sleeve to write again, turning it up to him again "Every day more of your people kill more of mine, you expect me to believe they're all outliers?". The knight glared daggers at the demon as she gave him time to read out her message, how could he even pretend to be a good person? She bet all of her earnings that the demon was sending the creatures over himself to sabotage the kingdom. It's exactly something to be expected from a cretin like him.

Desh raised a white eyebrow before letting a very patient smile touch his face. "Young and passionate about her people."

Oh how long Desh had been rehearsing a conversation like this in his head.

"So, I suppose I can say that about you then? Humans. Traitorous heathens. Scum of the planet. Greedy and disgusting excuses for people. You are blinded by your primitive desires. YOU ransack, kill, maim, burn, torture and rape. Anything that you feel like doing, you do. Despicable creatures of instinct and nothing more." Desh maintained his kind and patient expression as if he wasnt slandering all of humanity. He wanted to let it sink in for a second. Really let that fester.

"That is....what human bandits are. Correct? Plenty of em. Sloven and despicable excuses for human beings? By your logic, you are guilty for their actions arent you? You are responsible for the atrocities commited by the entirety of mankind. Arent you?"

The expression faded and now Desh's gaze bore into her, as if he was seeing her very soul. "Does that feel just to you? Is righteous? Is that how Elysium, the kingdom of humanity and light, operates? If so, then do the world a favor and take that sword you keep twitchin to use on me and impale yourself on it. Rid us of the filth of humanity and I will personally slaughter every dark creature on this planet myself. My family included."

Emilia met his gaze with a scowl, the dark power behind the demons eyes was enough to send a shiver down her spine, but she held herself firmly not wanting to give the dark king any ground.

Before he had even finished Emilia was writing once again, furiously scrawling away her defense, it made no sense to her that she would have to defend her people in this way. How could the demon even expect to portray himself and his people as good, after all she had seen in her short time with the guard already she knew the dark king and his ilk were irredeemable.

Holding up her board to show her response, she lamented the fact that she had to argue in this way, the board was much too small to accurately portray her thoughts on and it felt awkward to argue with someone in this manner. "even evil humans can do bad with good reason, killing for vengence and stealing for necessities." She held up her message for a brief moment, giving him ample time to read before continuing. "Vampires, werewolves and the like are born killers, born evil, it's their nature, there's a difference"

"Vengeance....interesting. Come closer, O righteous child of light."

She blinked and tilted her head, but did as she was told, if the demon intended to kill her he would have done it already.

"Give me the lives of you and all of those under your command."

Her mouth hung agape for a moment and she shook her head quickly, there was no way she would ever do such a thing especially for him.

"Why not? I will do an evil for a good reason."

Shaking her head once again she quickly marked down another message for him "You have no good reason, you're a demon, a wretched child of the dark"

"I was twelve, an infant by demon standards. My parents were demons but innocent. Thry had never shed a drop of blood in their lives. They lived centuries without involving themselves in the constant, blood soaked back and forth of both our ancestors. One day they decide to help a human. From the light kingdom who was being pursued. They hid him. Fed him. Clothed him. Siupplied him when he recovered. Guess what he did."

The demon's voice shook at the last word. The 500 year old anger and strife rising from deep within the depths of his heart. Clearly reflected in his eyes.

At this point, Grimgutz has had enough from both of these two. An intruder in his kingdom was disrupting the time he spent with his friend, and this wasn't going to happen. Just as Desh had begun to stir from his seat, Grimgutz had stood up from his seat abruptly, the table shaking in its place. Thanfully, there wasn't any alcoholic beverages to be spilled onto the ground. His actions were to confront the intruder, but he remembered who the intruder was offending, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, non-verbally reassuring him that the job done would be short and swift, unneeding of his intrusion.

"Awight," He began, his towering figure closing the gap between it and the knight, the brute's facial features contorting in rage, a growl building up like the start of a motor, slowly but steadily.. "AH DUN' CARE 'BOUT YOO'R DAMN GOOD OR EVIL, YOO'R BOTHERIN' ME FRIEN' EHN ME BAR, EHN ME KINGDUM! WOT DA HELL DO YOU EVEN FINK YOO'R DOIN' EHN MAH KINGDUM EH?!" He huffed, his emotion literally coming off his body in licks of flame that threatened to catch onto the roof.

"WOT SAY YOU, KNIGHT OV DA DRAGON ORDAH?!" He spat, prodding his giant finger to her chest, the mere force of the accusatory poke threatening to send him, and her lurching over.

Emilia was stunned for a moment, the look in the demon kings eyes reflected true, geniune sadness. Of course this couldn't be, he had to be tricking her, lying to twist her emotions, but as she gazed over his expression her her certainty in this thought began to waver. She moved to write another message before the two were interrupted by the king of fire who exploded at the young knight.

She shot the Ork a wary glance taking a step back to avoid the flames that seemed to grow and flicker with every outburst. The knight nearly toppled over from just the force of one finger, she shuddered to imagine the strength of the Ork in a true battle. Luckily she managed to hold her footing, stumbling back before gripping onto a nearby table for support.

Waving both hands dismissively she brought up her board once again, quickly scrawling down a message for him. "I'm here on business, never intended to arugue, my apologies"

Desh sighed, his temper cooling rapidly as Grim's rose. He reached over and placed a hand on his scorching shoulder, ignoring the pain it brought. "Easy Grim. She's just a child. She's never known the fires of war. The loss it brings." Both ruler's lost more than either cared to admit aloud.

His eye twitching in anger, he turned and sat himself back down at the booth. The waitress, having known what happened to the last bar the Grimgutz had gotten angry at, quickly came back and placed two Last Wishes on the table, 5 little shot glasses for each person. Each was like a burning sensation that scaleded the throat and ignited the sinuses for every sip. It brought tears to the eye, but it was Grim's favorite drink.

"Da loss eht brings." He downed a glass. "Ah'll drink ta dat." He paused, downing another shot "Loss, da ork's wurst fear" He downed his third shot, it seeming to drain away the elements that flowed from him. " 'Appens e'rry day, e'rry day we sit ehn our kastulz, an' behin' our wallz. Loss ov a friend, loss ov a good masheen. Loss ov war." He paused, staring blankly ahead. "Waagh nevah changes."

"Damn right..." Desh raised his glass and downed two shots in quick succession. A grumble resounded in his chest at the sttength of the drink. It was a moment before he turned to the mute once more.

"The human thought the same way you did. Despite the kindness he was treated with. He reported it to Elysium and Elysium dispatched the Dragon Guard."

"They came and slaughtered them. The captain at the time and his men laughed over their easy victory. Relishing in how they begged for mercy. It was hilarious to them."

The demon king met the knightess's eyes with very tired eyes that still contained the hot blade of anger deep within. "By the time I was an adult, they had all long since passed. I was denied my vengeance." This time the shadows began to shift with Desh's words. "So you and all of your men owe me their blood. My vengeance needs to be satiated and it is your responsibility. Since you are so noble, you will put my 5 century long grief to rest. Wont you?"

Emilia just shook her head slowly, it didn't make sense to her, yes humans could do bad she never denied that but no one would ever go against someone for helping them. Her dragon guard would never kill something so harmless that it was begging for mercy, would they? Her mind spun with questions, why was the king of the dark so kind? Why had he defended her from the fire king even while they fought. No good answer came, none of this was something she expected from a demon.

Sighing heavily she began another message, her expression suddenly very somber "I'm sorry for your loss, but my men have never done anything to you, and vengence will not bring anything back" it read, she felt so strange apologizing to a demon, demons were evil after all it was in their nature, why should she ever need to apologize to one? But the king of dark, he felt different, he was like nothing she had ever seen before.

"Don't deny me my revenge and then lie to me on top of that light walker. You aren't sorry for something that was 400 years before your time. Just as I am not sorry for the actions my people took against the world in their rage and despair." The demon took another shot and shook his head against the alcohol.

"I dont want you or the life of your men. I just want my people and my family to live in bloody peace..."

"It has been 30 years since the dark kingdom was established and that is 30 years you have not had to worry about any form of dark creature aside from the occasional deranged one. You get those as often as you get bandit raids...." Desh was about to leave it there before adding, "My wife checked the numbers. You can check yourself. Its a rarity and there's a reason for it."

Another shot. Another grumble.

"Why do you Elysians always act like its impossible? I have living proof its possible."

"Yeh." Grimgutz quickly added. Not that he actually knows what the arguement is, or exactly what the knight might be saying since he hasn't learned how to read common languages yet, but he is more than eager to agree with his friend and move on with business.

"Boss." A singular word from the desolate tavern, the place having been emptied after the massive power surge that ran chills down the spines of most creatures who were already having doubts on staying from the prescence of the Dark King. The Black Ork Ghazzy had stepped forwards to defend his friend from his king.

"Eh?" Answered Grimgutz from the corner of his mouth. He was on his second batch of Last Wishes, notorious for finishing at least 15 before passing out. Grimgutz was on his 8th Last Wish, the countdown for everyone else in the tavern who wished to speak to him was beginning to dwindle.

"Boss, ah let 'er ehn to da kingdum. Wuz me boss." He said somewhat sheepishly. Grimgutz raised an inquisitive eyebrow from his comfortable posistion, his head resting against his hand, which was propped up against the bepis.

"You wot mate?" The king slurred. "Why come?" He added, his grammar beginning to fail along with his liver.

"She sez dat she woz 'ere on a biznizz trip." Ghazzy explained, hoping that he wouldn't be killed for insubordination.

But luckily for him, alcohol has a great effect on the mind of one who is so tense all the time.

"Yeh, awight. Jus' leeve mama an' papa baer alone while we talk awight Ghazzy?" There were multiple questions raised in Ghazzy's head, but in his mind, his own life was saved by the wonderful drinks of the Prancing Squig. Ghazzy decided to ignore this, hoping that his friend would be out of deep water before long.

Turning her head to face the Black Ork, Emilia was surprised to see that he was defending her intrusion. She gave Desh a sideways glance watching the Ork she had come to like take responsibility for her actions. Quickly she scrawled something down on her board, holding it up to Desh "Read aloud please: Ghazzy has been nothing but nice to me, don't punish him , let me take responsibility for my own actions"

The dark king read the letters on the board but waved it away. The ork would be fine. In his buzzed mind, he only wanted the answer to his question.

Emilia gave him a pleading look, looking from Ghazzy to Desh, he was right, the ork would be fine, she just hated to have someone else take responsibility for her own actions. With a huff she shook her head and brushed the chalk away preparing an answer.

One of the few advantages to her disability was that she had that extra obstacle between what she thought versus what she said, allowing her to express herself just a bit better. Holding up her board once again it read "I am sorry, truly sorry, I could never understand a loss so great" her expression was geniune sympathy, she couldn't imagine what she would feel if she were to lose her own parents.

The following line read "I want peace too, but I've never met a demon before who shared this desire"

The demon narrowed his eyes and pointed at her, his finger beginning to sway from the drink, "Stop apologizinnn..." he slurred. "My niece iz...abeecon. a beacon of hope I tell youz. Aint that right Grim? Member mah niece? Gorgeous demoness that uses da powaz of da lihht kindom? Tellin yah! A luminos priestess and archdemon made her. Her momma waa sucha wonderfil lady. Shee mussbe so proud of lil Pia."

"Wot ehn dah..." Sway a little on his elbow, his arm slowly slackening, his eyes began to light up with memory. "YEH! 'ER! I REMEMBAH 'ER" He waved his shot glass triumphantly in the air. His 17th one, a new record. "Wif dem pretty eyes an' such? Yeh..." He downed that glass, the flames curling around his feet growing brighter as he fought to stay awake, to stop the curtains from dropping over his eyes. "You, you remembah dat one army frohm up norff? Da loightnin' peopluz?" He burped.

In the vain effort of keeping his head off the table, he spotted a familiar face. It was that peddler-mercenary-person. "OI!" he called out to 'Jean' as he vaguely remembered, who had suggested that the two were doing 'business'. The business of drinking was at hand, diplomacy would come after they both woke up. "FUGGOFF." He uttered, which then turned into a giggle, and then a full out guffaw, with him smashing the table with his fist as he fought to control his own inebriated, foggy humor put on by the drinks.

Emilia gave the demon a curious look and shook her head slowly, she was going to apologize, it was only right in this situation. She cocked her head at the two at the mention of this niece, looking between the two for further information though it appeared that the two of them were too inebriated to explain further.

Ghazzy, seeing that Emilia had some sort of internal input on the state of the two kings. "Dis 'appens, wait a few hours fer dem to be ova wif." He shrugged, and sat himself down at the bar, ordering a Scourge's Curse. A little bitter, but nice enough to drink more than of without having to pass out wthin the first 30.

"Mah niece is a demoness that uses the powers of light. Teh offsprin of a priestess of light and an archdemon. She's beautifill." The demon repeated. A little clearer this time.

The knight tilted her head, this was something she definitely had never heard of before.. could you even have a combination of the two? She wrote down her next message quickly "That doesn't seem possible"

"She's over a hundred years old, conjures and consoomes light, manipulates it expertly, and loves plants. Its the offspring of a hooman and demawn. Its not unheard of. Their elements or where they come from doesnt effin matter. Its entirely possible. You light walkers are just too stubborn to see that."

Emilia shook her head slowly in disbelief, there was no way such a thing could exist, a combination between the light and dark, who would even attempt such a thing? An idea popped into her head, and before common sense could stop her she was already writing, lifting her board to him once again "May I meet her?"

The buzzed archdemon raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders, "Sure. You can talk to the other Elyusians living in my kingdom."

The knight simply gave a nod and a small smile, she couldn't help but be just a little curious of what exactly went on in the dark kingdom, this venture was shaping up to be much more than she had expected.

"Oi, yoo'v gawt ovva panzies in yoo'r kingdum?" The flame brute asked outwardly. "Das a..." he trailed off, before raising a singular finger in retort. "Das a foirst." he muttered to himself, downing his 21st shot.

Downing what seemed to be the 18th shot, Desh lazily turned left to lay his eyes on Jean, the former king and the demon's mouth did not have a filter at the moment."Hey, if it isnt Jean. I'm surprised to see you all the way out here. I never would have pegged you the type to hang around orks. You always seemed more prissy than that."

Historical Storyteller
Elephantom

 

[Elephantom]

PRESENT DAY
“Oh, the world is full of excuses, your grace.” Jean turned back towards the entrance of the throne room, rotating back just slightly enough to give a polite wave, before continuing onwards. Kzath, who had been formerly ambling near the great door, soon strode after the fleeting Jean. Sven lingered around for a while, his gaze wavering from the throne room to the throne room and nowhere in particular, before he too left the room. All left were a couple of grots and small orcs, left to their own devices, and bearing a large list of menial tasks. As was their duty.

“How do you-” Jean paused halfway, collecting his thoughts. The former king's expansive stride gradually became thinner and shorter, forcing his companions to lessen their speed too. “How do you think it went?”

“It was remarkably suicidal.” Sven muttered, casting a heavy glance — though it was largely undetectable, as Sven usually always appeared to be just Sven — towards both Jean and Kzath, one at a time, slow turn. His words were ignored by the two seniors.

“It went finely, sir.” Kzath said. His gloved hands retreated to his hind, his left clasped around his right one. His walk was unbroken and smooth, his posture terribly cold. His red robe, crimson against gold and vice versa, fluttered and swayed behind him with repetitive continuity.

“Good,” Jean wrapped his fidgety hands together. “Just good.”

The rest of their walk was mostly uninhibited except for the fleets of gallant orcs candidly displaying their brazen valor every now and then, right in front of the trio. They were waved away with a simple show of authority — the deep-shaded weight of their clothes were highly efficient, and the hyperborean nature of the two blackhands aided much — and a slight pinch of otherworldly sorcery.

All was silent outside — the dry wind pouring into and out the many nook and cranny of this tremendous castles, hollow whispers that grated against the iron frame of the build and the cacophony of the orcs. It was a quiet time, and surprising considering the fact that orcs oft ambitiously strived to be loud. Jean peeked out from a lazily placed window. It was a great sight, but, by all means, it wasn't beautiful. Murky sections of cities separated by walls and gates, all made up three circles. The inner circle, containing richly-made buildings in terms of the orc, the second one made up of the less colorful, and the third only containing dry, dull buildings.

Outside the city parameters were junkyards of mildly impressive length, each one expansive and alive with the nervous strolling of grots and bigger orcs, the latter less nervous than the former. The orcs usually built stuff simply without any advanced conduct, a couple of big orcs ordering around smaller orcs to hammer junk and scraps into formidable siege weapons — logic was painfully absent in their undertakings.

Jean looked away from the window, before leading the way again. Sven was as passive as always, with only Kzath looking even remotely annoyed — wait was for the weak, the emotionally disrupted. Their trip was, contrary to the city, topped with shattering noises. They made way, again, utilizing the metallic halls, which were wide enough for all sound to echo throughout the extent of its span. The sleeping orcs, slumping against the walls and on the carpets in drunken stupors, were now joined by attentive, cognizant troopers — they were joking, exchanging crude jokes, and were apparently far from being truly focused. The trio passed by the odd array of doors, each leading to their own hall or room, before landing before the two sleeping guardsmen outside the main entrance. The graffiti that had been scribbled on the wall that stood by the left orc's side had increased tenfold, displaying even more vulgar messages in the orcish tongue.

Strangely, aside from the two guardsmen and the hallway stragglers, none were sleeping. Clearly, something important was underway, enough to incite focus within the pea-sized brains of the common orcs.

“You feel that, sir?” Sven's voice was but a raspy whisper, his orthodox accent scarcely audible amongst the commotion. Indeed, the air was flush with signs of sorcerous disruption, of great nature, and one that could be felt by those sensitive to its lure.

Jean, for one, was unnerved by its presence. It felt like the after-effects of wizardry, the rotten irradiation that magic often casted on a land after being called — it felt dark, a bit profound, and ultimately, an aura that seemed to cause alarm within the minds. No doubt, its origins came from the tenebrous side of magic. Jean was soon shaken off from his trance by a slight, dodgy glance from Kzath. The arch-magus knew all the proper sides of Jean, enough to know his many deficiencies and shortcomings.

Jean cleared his parched throat, the saliva painfully chafing its way downwards. “I do. Magnificent, isn't it?”

“We should, perhaps, concentrate more on our mission here.” Kzath suggested, with a minuscule gesture of the hand.

“Oh, yes,” Jean collected his pieces, before hovering his smooth hands up towards his chin. He dawdled in that position for a rather prolonged duration, even as the trio trudged up a difficult slope. “What was it that we were doing?”

“Aside from minor surveillance, a pair of chores here and there, we have absolutely nothing to do.” Kzath pointed out.

“What about Sir Markas?” Sven interjected.

“Oh, he probably hasn't arrived yet-” Kzath paused, casting a sideway glance towards Sven, then concentrating towards Jean, who was half-mindedly walking. “And if he does arrive, then I believe we shall meet him near the Prancing Squig.”

“First thing he always does is drink, sir.” Sven added.

Jean stared, his eyes partially-lidded, at Sven and Kzath for the briefest of moments, before giving an unenthusiastic nod. The short journey seemed infinitely more important than any conversation, and Jean was happy to keep it that way.

Kzath continued unbroken, while Sven simply shrugged.

The vibrant floors of the city — rock and sandstone tiles upon more harder foundations such as the natural crags the path was built upon and added gravel — stood out amongst the steel rows of building that were mounted just beside the wide pavements. The wind was more strongly identifiable now that they were in the ground, moans and iron shrieks clinging dryly to the air. The houses in the inner circle were draped in placid iron, corroded around the edges and speckled with rust spots, that made them scarcely unique. Unlit oil lanterns hung on dearly to a couple of meekly placed lampposts, and the plenty of stands that decorated the external front walls of the houses.

The Prancing Squig was markedly different in comparison to the other buildings, evidently more newer and shinier in appearance — though, in Jean's eyes, it was still extremely dirty. The door was rotting, as was the case with most doors in the fire kingdom, and the plain metal reinforcing happened to be rusty. It was not a surprise to the likes of Jean, for he was used to the gross climate of the fire kingdom.

The former king beckoned for Sven to open the door, and which the ex-journeyman did, and as soon as he did, the trio were struck by a wave of stench — stale piss, Jean could see a fresh trail of them coming from the side of the expansive room, dried sweat, and rotten alcohol. Wood alcohol, the tough kind that one certainly shouldn't drink. Orcs being orcs, they had to do just that.

Sven stepped inside, followed by Kzath, and lastly, Jean. The pub was relatively tame and quiet in comparison with the rash nature of orcs. The voyeuristic nature of the Sun often tends to discourage open drinking. And orcs, being orcs, seem to bear a gracious affinity for open drinking.

On the left side of the room, on a row of stool fixed close to a grey counter near the stair, were a couple of humans drinking themselves to death. The humans, bounty hunters and mercenaries, were dressed in rugged cloaks, bland metal bracers and chestplates, all having long hair and nondescript beard. Towards the far right, near a large stone slab, two skeletons were playing a game of dice — exactly what sort they were playing, was a vague fact. The first skeleton was lanky, thin skull and ribs, and draped in metal plates and a thin cloak, while the second one was large and wearing a dull brown threadbare coat, thicker than Lanky's.

“Two-one.” Lanky muttered, angrily, bare teeth clenched.

“Six-six.” Brown emitted what could vaguely be described as a laughter of sorts.

Right in the center, on an expansive table, dined Grimgutz and what seemed to be a demoniac accomplice — dusky skin, crooked horns, mirthless smile, only missing the cloven feet. Both brutish but extremely mysterious, a bare hint of a predator in his cursive voice. Jean, and his comrades to an extent, couldn't rightly figure out the nature of this demon, but judging from the mood of the conversation, they were likely talking about ledgers and ruthless business tactics. They were laughing, sharing thunderous jokes, and celebrating what seemed to be a triumph of sorts.

In the centre, between Gutz and the demon, exactly in front of Jean and his men, was an entity of lithe stature — smaller than them all, but neatly armed, yet not quite properly outfitted. She, as it happened to be, was not of this state — it was a simple impossibility. Her weapon, of bright Elysian steel, and bearing the emblem of the light kingdom on her tabard. The facts were all lucid enough for the viewer to gawk at.

Jean grimaced, a lopsided grimace, his eyes weary and weighty. The old man's finger twitched, curled, and twisted till it was a callous fist; his hate for Elysians, and not all but the most capitan of them all, stretched tall and lengthy. Sven inched forward, steadily raising his primary hand and gingerly putting it down on Jean's shoulder. A form of subtle restraining.

The 'knight' was a female, and by surprising means, she was exquisitely beautiful — not in a delicate manner, no, for their was a lethal tilt to the structure. She was dressed in surprisingly light clothing, and there was an extra insignia decorating the usual Elysian symbol: the mark of the dragon guards. It was an order, a shadowy splinter group, that Jean and his men had yet to know of.

Jean squinted at her, before being shoved by Sven to move forward. He quietly glided past her, head bowed down to avoid any queer pair of eyes, before landing near a table beside the two dice-bearing skeletons — Jean had no wish to confront the King, or his two devious accomplices, in his more weathered condition.

On the corner, there were seven men, clothed in fair armour and possessing clean clothes, and surrounding a man of supposedly spectacular rank; all were seated on a large oaken table. On their left, was a man in pigmented gambeson and blonde hair — a strange sight to see in the fire kingdom, and in a bar, of all places — seated in front of a more common table. The stone slab separated the group and the singular man from the two skeletons. A solitary candle resting on the cracked rock, and which served naught but to cast a dim light upon that part of the room. The atmosphere appeared unmistakably recondite and bland.

“I'll,” Jean looked behind him, glancing at both Sven and Kzath. “Take a bit of rest.”

Kzath raised his eyebrows, Sven appearing passive as always, before they left the vicinity of the bar. A couple of quick strides, and the duo was soon out of sight.

Jean looked around the room, weary-eyed and burdened by the desire to seek a quiet place. The former king made way towards the stairs, near the counter, earning a few nasty glares from the drunken mercenaries. Jean continued on, resolute in his objective, quickly making way to his rented room.

 

[Historical Storyteller]

Lord Walter the Bastard

The Prancing Squid​

Walter never liked the Prancing Squid, he often fancied it as the devil's playground where all the evils of the world ran wild. Both man and ork shit and pissed and bled on the floor as they threw bottles of beer to the wall. Elves and vampires and humans who were once conceived to be mortal enemies were quickly reduced to hopeless romantics trying to get themselves laid. Brawls between strangers were common, the cause of which was too much alcohol and too little common sense. All this was happening as a blind musician was singing and playing medieval rock music with his living magical instruments.

That wasn't all. Occasionally, some rude customer would fart at Walter's general direction, and he had to restrain himself from rising up and knocking the daylights out of those rascals. Then people would talk and laugh too loud and they would slam their naked fists on the tables as they made bawdy jokes about their sex lives. More ill-mannered peasants were discovered to pick their nose, pick their ears, and then proceed to pick their nails much to Walter's apparent disgust. And when those smug bastards were not content with that, they scratched their balls and their ass too.

"My Lord, it seems like we have entered into the mouth of hell itself. Every man here does not hesitate to break his own integrity, and they do so without a second thought. I swear that some day their own iniquity will be their undoing. I prophesy that an angry righteous god will come here and destroy all that is evil." All this was said by none other than Sir Silvester, a fresh-faced young knight. Silvester had only arrived inside the Prancing Squid for a few hours but he was gaining a steady reputation as a fanatic screaming bloody murder for the heretics in Elysium and calling on a crusade against the Dark Kingdom to save the world.

"Ehhh, calm down ya lil' shithead. Not everyone's a goodie-lil'-two-shoes. And listen to yerself, mate, its like ye can't wait for the end of the world. Yer just a man that needs some beer so ye can open up a lil'. Maybe a lass or two oughta loosen ya up." And this was said by Tekoa the Swifthanded, one of the older men in Walter's company.

"Beer is for sinners." And with that, Sir Silvester got up and left in a huff, heading straight for the doorway.

Tekoa was stunned to silence. He wondered what he had done to deserve this cold rejection of his wisdom. Perhaps, he thought, he had not considered the fact that Silvester was a self-righteous hardass. Educating these fellows to the ways to the world was as hard as trying to teach fish poetry. Their minds and hearts seemed to be made of stone that could only be broken by supernatural effort. And Tekoa did not possess any divine attributes that could aid him in persuading Silvester to calm the fuck down. He was merely a man who loved war, women and wine.

"And sex is overrated!" said Sir Silvester. And just as he was about to depart the Prancing Squid for good, a mysterious giant stepped in and Silvester's face smacked the giant's chest. It took a few moments for the young knight to recover, but once he got his bearings he politely apologized to this stranger who he had handled with such discourtesy. But upon looking up and seeing the giant's face with his own eyes, Silvester's face turned pale and he used all the remaining willpower he still had with him to keep from shitting himself in sheer terror.

"Holy shit! Its an elf... no wait... you've got no knife ears. I got it... you're a vampire! No, you're not that pale... Aha! I know what you are. You're a demon!" Silvester brought up his hand and pointed to the demon for everyone present to bear witness to his discovery.

Silvester's entire body started to shake like an earthquake and rivers of sweat was flowing from the top of his head. The knight could not keep his calm, he was frightened by the mere sight of this dark monster. He had heard stories of demons eating people alive and scattering their bones to the wind, and how they destroyed entire armies and kingdoms with a single powerful spell. He felt that all the courage and valor in his heart could not save him the world of hurt the demon was about to dish out on him. God, bless his soul.

"Took you long enough to figure that out, human." said the demon, he was wearing finely dressed clothes, the likes of which had too many fancy decorations and shiny objects.

"Don't eat me!" Silvester clasped his hands and sank to his knees to beg for mercy. He was silently praying to god to save him by striking this demon down with lightning from heaven.

"Don't worry, I don't eat pieces of shit." replied the demon, who then proceeded to casually stride towards the other end of the bar to order a drink.

At that moment, roars of laughter erupted all around the Prancing Squid, races regardless of whether they were human, elf, ork, or demon were taking pleasure at this poor knight's shame and misery; it was a moment of racial solidarity earned at Silvester's expense. Each and every one of them had enough of the bullshit that he discussed relentlessly for an eternity. Jokes poking fun at the Light kingdom were exchanged and it was followed by an even greater guffaw of laughter.

Silvester was thoroughly humiliated. A few seconds of cowardice had destroyed his dignity and it had severely damaged his confidence. He was left there, sitting on the floor feeling sorry for himself, looking like the life had been sucked out of him. Some people expressed sympathy for him and stopped themselves from pushing it further so they could avoid hurting his feelings too much. While others continued mercilessly ridiculing him, completely ignoring his pitiful state and unknowingly sending him teetering past the breaking point.

"Good god, at this rate you Elysians will be lucky to herd pigs for the demons once they're done with you!"

"He's not a follower of the Light, he's more like the Devil's secretary."

"You call that man a knight? I bet he can't slay a hedgehog with his naked ass."

Even Coburn the Fireswisher, one of the two battlecasters in Walter's party, could not resist participating in this public shaming contest. "Ohhh, Silvester, you just got burned."

"OHHHHH, YOU JUST GOT BURNED." Everyone jibed in unison.

Tekoa hit Coburn hard with the back of his fist, breaking his nose and sending streams of hot blood flying into the air. "Shut up, Coburn. Are you all right, Silvester?"

Walter had been watching the disaster unfold from a distance, minding his own business and happily drinking bottles of Mattan Knight Beer. He was alarmed when he saw that things quickly took a turn for the worse when Silvester made a fool out of himself by acting like a scared little child in front of a demon. But things came to a head when Walter saw the poor knight's honor being torn apart by peasants and scoundrels who did not know any better. Walter decided that this had to end now, so he rose from his seat and stepped in to defend Silvester from this wicked onslaught of wisecracks and one-liners.

And he did it the best way he knew how. Walter grabbed an empty bottle of beer and smacked it on the head of one of the laughing bastards and silenced the whole bar in the process. Serves them right for treating a knight with disrespect...

 

[BubbleButt]

Breen
Breen had been busy drinking his booze in moderation at the table, while trying to keep a level head. It wasn't an easy task for Breen, as he never really did find the time to drink, thus not being used to alcoholic beverages. He had taken another drink before feeling slightly dizzy, shaking his head slightly for it to wear off. Breen had decided that he consumed enough alcohol for the day and set the beer bottle down before he became too intoxicated for him to stay in control. Booze was definitely strong beverage in the Fire Kingdom, that's for sure.

Laughing erupted from the other side of the room...

He glanced over in curiosity, seeing if something of worth was occurring in the origin of the laughter. He had heard poor-witted remarks in a weak attempt to make fun of the Light Kingdom, the kingdom that HE was making sure to protect from those who try to belittle it in such ways, people like THEM. It made him sick to his stomach, and he HATED it.

He stood up from his wooden chair, knocking it over to the ground in the process while taking off his glasses. He had enough of this. He stomped over to the crowd and grabbed the shirt of a random asshole in the crowd surrounding the poor knight that was seated on the floor, making fun of him. The thug looked on with a shocked expression as a fist was raised by Breen, ready to strike the man until he bled all the blood he could possibly beat out of him. Then, he had heard a beer bottle shatter, echoing throughout the tavern. A group of dignified men had been helping the knight during the onslaught of insults thrown at him, one of them had seemed to knock one of the scum out, probably for a long while as well. Breen punched the man he was holding, knocking him out instantly and threw him to the puke-stained floor. He decided to help them out with the situation.

Breen pushed his way through the crowd and stood in front of them all, with a completely rage induced face and clenched fists.

"Get out of here, or a true Elysian is going to show you just how powerful we are!" He screamed in rage at the crowd. The crowd broke out laughing once again at the man's threats as he did not look very menacing to them. He quickly waved his arm horizontally from left to right, with a bolt of solar energy coming out of it. The projectile shot out towards the crowd, hitting a large Ork in his frontal torso with a satisfying crack, loud enough that it could be hear outside of the Squig, before he fell over unconscious with a new scar on his chest and burnt clothes. The rest of the crowd separated afterwards, going to separate sides of the bar in intimidation as Breen lowered his arm to his side.

He glanced at Silvester and Walter with a grim face before nodding to them and placing his glasses on the bridge of his nose once more, where they usually go. He returned to his table, replacing the chair he had knocked down before sitting in it and simply pressed his forehead down gently on the table. This was all giving him mild migraines, but he was happy to help teach a lesson.

Historical Storyteller

 

[The Faceless King]

Rolen Galenodale Pt. 2
Fire Kingdom Market​

Present Day:
For most, walking through the market was like trying to swim through a riptide. The merchant stalls were akin to rocks in a river, meanwhile the white water rapids of shoppers hastily coursed around these disruptions in the current. The movements of the bazaar were complete and utter pandemonium, yet it was also like a strange and sporadic dance, and if there was anything Rolen was good at, it was dancing.


The Genasi had no problem navigating the broken cobbled streets, his white robes and gold ornaments making him stick out like a sore thumb in the predominantly earthy tones of the other market goers. It was this air of authority that cautioned people to stay out of his way, and if that was not enough warning, the seven foot tall behemoth of a man trailing behind him certainly did the trick.

Those who were frequenters of the market place knew to give the two a wide berth, while those who were fresh faced to the brutal shopping rush would simply stay out of the way to avoid the strange and menacing looking giant. Though the Eunuch – Obby “The Iron Fist” – was not an Ork, he did appear to have the same muscular structure as one. However, unlike an Ork, Obby was completely silent and his face never seemed to shift from the stoic expression he wore. His baldhead was tan, but still light in its complexion, shining brightly in the light of the sun. He wore a simple leather tunic, a white bido and sandals, and though he carried no weapons – for Eunuchs trained in Alagai’sharak, becoming deadlier in combat without a sword or spear – the behemoth was still just as menacing.

Occasionally – on their walk through the market – Rolen would deviate from the normal flow, splitting suddenly to the left or right, and approaching a stall that had caught his eye. When this happened, Obby was sure to follow, most people keeping out of the Eunuch’s way, while those who did not would find themselves face first on cobbled streets, the taste of copper and salt on their tongue. Nevertheless, it was rare that Rolen did deviate from the current, as he had ventured to this market many times in the past, and it’s usual assortment of exotic smells, colors and noises had become somewhat mundane. Still, there were moments when a jeweler or silk peddler that Rolen was familiar with could be seen on the edges of the street, at which point Rolen would wander over, stepping elegantly through the flow of the crowd and over to their stall. He would check their stock, and if there was something to his liking, he would purchase it and have it delivered to his estate.

Most of the merchants Rolen conversed with were connections he had made over the years, people he knew well and kept close. There were benefits to this of course, the networking it created was incredibly important for Rolen’s job and even though these merchants tended to be shrewd individuals, they were easy to persuade with a bit of coin, or teeth. Of course, there were some downsides to connections like these as well. The Genasi was aware of course that most living creatures required some amount of social interaction, merchants being no different, and so the peddlers oft tried to get a little too close to Rolen’s personal life. Nonetheless, while Rolen did not care for such niceties, he did find himself humoring his networks on occasion, partially because it kept them happy and cooperative and mostly because it was entertaining.

Continuing his walk down the street – Rolen’s boot heels clicking on the cobbling, the Genasi’s golden eyes scanning – the Chief Engineer spotted in the distance a familiar stall. The fabric of the tent like structure was a deep lavender, its gold trimming shining brightly, its obnoxious gleam admittedly eye catching. In the stall was a counter with a surfeit amount of gleaming jewelry on display. On the actual counter top was a small framed gnomish woman shouting back and forth with a lanky looking elven man. This was apparently called bartering, though this particular instance appeared to be a gross display of who had the largest set of lungs and who knew the most curses.

As Rolen drew closer, the gnomish woman’s red and angry face slowly transitioned to a cockeyed grin as she spotted him, shaking her head she chuckles. This however, seems to enrage the elven man further

“What’s ya laughin’ at now ye nastee ole’ bitch?! Foist ye axcusin’ me of thieven, an’ now you’s laughin’ at me?”

The gnomish woman paid no mind to the man and continued to laugh, the sound sweet like summer rain, yet sinister like thunder. There was mockery there, but most important was the actual and genuine humor. Rolen however did not find the situation humorous. He detested such barbaric language from a commoner such as this man, an elf nonetheless.

“Excuse me sir, I do hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but I’ve come to speak with an old friend of mine.” Although Rolen’s words were apologetic, he did not sound that way in the slightest. The words were cool and even, but laced with annoyance and something much more complicated.

“Wells axchually I’s do be minden, ye fucken cu-“ The man paused as he faced the owner of the disembodied voice that had addressed him, confused by by what he saw.

“Hmm, well if that’s the case,” Rolen faked disappointment in his voice as his eyes lit up brighter than before, the golden pupils now wavering as if made of fire, “I guess there’s no point in asking twice. Stop talking, in fact, stop breathing all together. You taint the air by exhaling that imbecilic disease you call a voice. Before we know it, this whole market will be as daft as you.”

Suddenly the elf’s eyes went wide, and his face fell pale, paler than it already was. His hands began to claw at his chest. He tried gasping, but found himself unable because there was no air for him to inhale. In fact, he did not even have lungs. The man’s eyes went bloodshot around the edges, their pupils dancing about the market like a skittish horse, unsure where to run, unsure if running would even help.

“Alright Rolen, let the poor bastard go.” It was the gnome who had spoken now. She sounded disappointed as she told Rolen off, wanting to see the man in a little more pain clearly, but even she did not want the elf to die.

The gnomish woman, who was of about middle age stood proudly on top of her display counter. She had rich brown hair tied up into a neat little bun, save for the lock of grey hair, which she allowed to fall freely over her forehead. Her features were sharp and smooth like a skipping stone with deepest hazel eyes that watched the elf with both intensity and sympathy, but not pity. From the base of her left ear to her chin was a long and thin scar, silver and jagged from age. She wore but a simple cotton tunic – a few more buttons undone then was necessary – and leather trousers. At her side, she carried a silvery short sword with a sea-green gem embedded in the hilt, a gift from Rolen many years ago.

From the gnome’s boyish look, one would not be able to guess that she sold jewelry and personal ornaments, especially since the only form of ornate wear she adorned was a silver necklace and a pair if pearl earrings.

“Seriously Rolen, would’ya let the poor fucker go? It’s bad for business, ‘aven a dead man.”

After but a second more, Rolen’s eyes ceased their flickering, his gaze returning to their intense and unreadable stare. The eyes of a man who had seen more than his fair share of the world. Immediately the grubby looking elf inhaled the air he was so lacking. He drank it in like a drunk would their mead, finally able to taste the stale atmosphere of the market. After giving him some time to recover, Rolen held out a single well manicured hand in the dark haired elf’s direction. “Return what you stole and leave.” The elf complied, placing a ruby inlaid copper ring in Rolen’s hand, before darting off.

Satisfied with this, Rolen turned back to face the jeweler, placing her ring on the counter. The gnome gave Rolen a toothy and lopsided grin. “Rolen, you ole’ snake! How the fuck are ya?”

Returning her lopsided smile with an even and calculated smile of his own, Rolen answered the woman’s question by not answering it at all, instead, changing the subject away from his wellness entirely. “Ah, Tiama, a pleasure to see you today. Tell me, how are you and Krista? I’ve hear you are happily wed now, congratulations.” Rolen’s voice took on a subtle shift, sounding much kinder than most were used to.

“Ah, yes, so you’ve heard! We got married last spring.” Tiama sighs and shakes her head, that lopsided grin never leaving. “That wench will be the death of me, I swear it! But that was last spring… ‘as it really been so long ole’ friend?”

“It’s been two summers, Tiama.” He teased the woman, chiding her playfully.

“God’s burnt body, Rolen! That’s a long time fur friends to be apart, don’t’cha think? Tell me, what’s new? ‘Ave you found a woman to make a man out of you yet?” Rolen’s smile faded at this, his face unreadable, but annoyance clear in his air.

“With this again, Tiama? I told you, I have no need for such things.” The woman’s smile widened as a wicked look took over her eyes. “Still don’t make no sense to me. Yer a beautiful lookin’ man, damn it, you should have a beautiful lookin’ woman at’cher side too! I have ‘alf the mind to take you right here, on this damned stall's counter, mind you!” She winked at him slyly, before stroking her chin as if in thought. “Unless… Aha! Of course, your more of a rod dancer aren’t’cha? A nob gobbler as they say.” Rolen bristled. “Tiama, be careful what you say to me. I could end you here and now and no one would be the wiser.” The woman laughed manically at this, as if she had heard the same threat a thousand times. She had heard the threat a thousand times.

“Right, right, right. Speakin’ of which, what’cha do to that poor elf?” Rolen’s face brightened once again at the change in subject. “I simply convinced his brain that air did not exist, and neither did his lungs. Easy really, his mind was feeble and weak, easy to mold.” The man paused for a moment and thought. “Not unlike clay now that I think about it.”

The two continued to chat idly, catching up on past occurrences, reminiscing about half forgotten memories. There was talk of business, old acquaintances and even some light gossip. The conversations were as good as conversations could be, and it continued like this for quite some time, before there was an abrupt dark grey blur causing the two to pause, and suddenly, where once there had not been anyone, there was a tall and ominous figure. Habi. She stood in a deep bow, presenting four letters to her master. Rolen, seeming not surprised at all by Habi’s appearance, took the letters. “Thank you Habi, right on time, as always. Excuse me for a moment Tiama.” He gave a short bow in the slave’s direction and began to open and read the messages.

While Rolen attended to his letters, Tiama addressed the Sibbi Mamuri warmly. “Ah, Habi, it’s been so long, dear.” Caught off guard by the woman, the courier looked around wide eyed for a second, trying to find another Habi this woman could be addressing, but alas there was none. Quickly, they bowed and created several gestures with their hand. Not versed in the unspoken tongue, Tiama turned to Rolen. “Oy, Rolen, translate.”

Without glancing up from the letter he studied, the Genasi answered with a disinterested tone. “She said she’s surprised you remember her.” Tiama lets out a single dry and humorless laugh in response. “Well of course I remember. A woman never forgets ‘er savior, especially when their eyes are as pretty as yers.” Tiama’s wicked grin strikes her face as she steps closer to Habi, nearing the edge of the counter. “Step closer would ya dear? I want to get a better look at’cha.”

Without hesitation, Habi complied, stepping closer to the much smaller woman, who began observing her with the appraising eyes of a master merchant. “Take that turban of yers off, would ya? I’ve got a gift for you, and if yer face is nearly as pretty as yer eyes, I’d like to see it.” Tiama turned around and hopped off the counter, only to begin rummaging through an old chest.

Habi glanced nervously to Rolen, her eyes seeming to ask the question of whether she should comply or not. Still not looking up from his letters, Rolen replied, sounding just as disinterested as before. “It would be rude not to except a gift, Habi. Do as she tells you.” Without any more hesitation, the Sibbi Mamuri unwound her turban, letting the cloth roll into her hand effortlessly. Spools of long, dark brown hair fell around Habi’s shoulders; she had to push the locks back to reveal her slender face, and pillowy lips. With her face now exposed, one could see the gentle facial features, her deep green eyes contrasting with her light brown skin. There was a scar on Habi’s face as well, this one pink and smooth, running from the bottom of her right eye, to over her lip.

As Tiama turned around to this sight, she gave a kind smile. “Much better, gal! ‘Ere, wear this. I never got to say thank you for what’cha did fur me all those years ago, so I guess this is me doin’ exactly that.” Tiama hopped back on to her counter, and walked up to Habi, placing a necklace around the much taller woman’s neck. The chain was a dark brass, decorated by a black circle of one glassy material with a white crescent of a much more metallic material. “That black part is onyx, while the crescent is white gold. I don’t know how the tinkerer managed that, but there it is, clear as day.” The gnomish woman cupped her chin, admiring the necklace on Habi for a brief second. “Do you like it?” Tiama asked the Sibbi Mamuri, genuine curiosity in her voice.

Habi simply starred down at the moon, wide eyed, before remembering herself and bowing. It seemed Habi was going to sign something to Tiama, but stopped as her master sighed, quite annoyed by something. Quickly, the Sibbi Mamuri wrapped her hair back into the turban and covered her face with its ends, practiced efficiency making it but a moment.

“Disappointing.” Rolen quickly folded his letters and tucked them away into a pocket inside his jinbaori, before looking up and facing Habi, his expression seeming mechanical and unfeeling. “Send Dawud to Elysium. Make sure he brings Percival his reward. Then send Melek to the Earth Kingdom with coin for Tulio.” Pausing, the Genasi began messaging his temples. Closing his eyes, he lets out a long sigh and speaks quietly to himself. “The daft fool lives on an island, does he take me for a dolt? I should have that man’s head on a pike. At least the seeds and soil should arrive today. Still Jaman’s insolence is unforgivable.” Rolen turns his attention back to the Sibbi Mamuri who has snapped to attention. “Would you go remind Jaman why he shan’t test my patience? Actually, send Abdul, he will fare better at sea. I need you to keep an eye on those new comers. The lack of information I have on them is… disturbing.”Habi bowed to her master deeply in acknowledgment, before giving a departing bow to Tiama and leaping into the air, suddenly gone in a blur.

Rolen’s eyes seemed to follow something invisible for a moment, before he gave the jeweler before him a tired smile. “I’m sorry Tiama, but it seems I have a few errands I must attend to. Would you join me for dinner tonight?” His voice remained cool and even, despite the obvious annoyance he was feeling. “Ay that I will.” The gnomish woman gave polite smile, placing her hands on her hips. “Fantastic.” Rolen returned the woman’s smile and was about to leave when something stopped him. Quickly, his hand picked up the ring the elf had tried to steal earlier and began examining it. “Actually, Tiama, how many teeth would you want in exchange for this?”

The gnome barked a mocking laugh in response. “Teeth, dear? You an’ I both know that ain’t worth much to me. I’ll take twenty imperials fur it, no less.”

“Twenty? That’s a bit steep, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Rolen, you know just as well as I the history of that there ring. Don’tchu think you can be pullin’ any fast balls on me, friend, an’ don’t'chu be tryin’ any of that creepy eye shit either. I’ll gut’chu like a fish before you get the chance.” Tiama’s face took on a much harder expression, the expression of an experienced merchant. Rolen smiles warmly. “Of course, twenty imperials it is.” Rolen reaches into a pocket, pulls out a small bundle of coins, and places them on the counter before slipping the ring onto his middle finger. “We’ll see you tonight then Tiama. Come now Obby.” Departing from the gnome's stall, both Rolen and his Eunuch found themselves back in the flow of the current of market shoppers.

 

[wtfamidoinghere]

Ira Calfacio

Royal Greenhouses ~ The Dark Kingdom

Characters Included

Ira Calfacio

Cassiopeia of House Magnares

The pink skinned demoness watched the attendant as he turned back towards the castle, her white and gray eyes narrowing slightly, though it wasn’t out of disdain. Her softly rounded chin rested against the palm of her hand as the dark red tips of her fingers curved around the side of her face, lightly tapping against her soft cheek while she watched her helper until he was out of sight. Only once he was beyond her field of vision did she continue on to her own destination, though her journey wasn’t an immediate one.

Her bare feet carried her lazily down the garden path, stopping periodically as her attention turned from one plant to the next. It was as she was leaning down to smell a bright yellow flower with petals as big as an outstretched palm, each one seeming to have been painted with a streak of blood, that she was brought back to reality once again.​

It wasn’t something that she saw in the virtually empty garden that caused her to give pause, it was something that she heard. It was softer than the awful cries that the ornery bird was still making in the distance, but it wasn’t the soft sound one made when they ran into something, no, it was the sound of something being intentionally hit. If it had only been an accident, it was likely that her long pointed ears wouldn’t have caught the sound at all. Her posture straightened and stiffened as she abandoned her desire to smell the pretty yellow flower that bloomed before her.​

The expression on her soft features turned to one of horror as the sound of wood creaking and falling reached her, the delicate pink shade of her skin turning pale as the loud crash of glass was soon to follow. Her steps were light and silent, barely seeming to touch the rough stone ground as she dashed through the gardens in the direction the sounds had come from, her white eyes wide with anxiety. When she happened upon the scene, she approached as though she were coming upon the body of a recently deceased loved one.

With trembling hands, she softly touched the trunk of the vandalized tree, her brow furrowed and her gaze drifted up the length of her fallen child to the broken section in the greenhouse where already there were several attendants of varying species gathering to discover the source of the commotion. The two parts of the tree had knocked down several panes of glass, basically creating a new and unplanned entry way to the glass building.​

Not only had the fallen tree created a new entrance, but it had also sent shards of glass raining down on the other plants and workers inside, and while one half did land on a cart that was only holding dirt, the other crushed several rose bushes. The workers didn’t seem to want to stay around and see what had caused the tree to fall, some of them seemed to have already spied Ira and hurriedly went back to work, a lot of them now just trying to clean up the mess that had been made.

Cassiopeia on the other hand, was just trying to process this. Yes, there were a lot of trees in the garden. Yes, there were a lot of trees in the Dark Kingdom as a whole. However, these trees, these trees were special to her because she had raised them each from seeds and into saplings and had supervised their replanting in the external parts of the gardens and now this one was just gone. There was a dry click as she swallowed, her hands balling into fists and one being raised over her heart as she turned her gaze toward the culprit of this heinous crime.
​

“You…” she hissed grimly as her brow furrowed and her eyes squinted slightly in anger before her delicate form would stalk towards the king’s personal assistant, gracefully climbing over the tree if need be as she approached him, unblinking, “you did this on purpose!”

After Cassiopeia said those words all attendees bolted out of the area knowing that anyone who stayed in the vicinity was bound to get engulfed in the confrontation. The red demon put his head down not because of fear of Pia, But because of what Desh would do to him if a battle were to occur while he was away. However, Ira was tired of thinking. He rose his head and stepped forward with his chest out, pushing Pia.

The small demoness gasped as she was bumped back, her balance only faltering for a moment, while her resolve was as firm as ever.​

"And what if I did? I suggest you back off Snake, before you get hurt." Ira suggested with a cocky grin on his face. He clearly wanted to get a rise out of Pia and by her body language he knew it was working.​

Pia's eyes widened only briefly to Ira's insult before they quickly narrowed again and she determined to show how snake like she could be by delivering her own biting remark, "King's servant? More like King's Fool," one of her slender fingers extended then and jabbed callously at Ira's chest, "after all, you would have to be to desecrate his very garden."

Ira remained stalwart until she mentioned Desh. His eyes began to focus on her face and his aura began to fluctuate alongside his anger.

A somewhat malicious grin made it's way onto her pink lips as her hands rested upon her curvy hips, the very air about her screaming that she dared him to go ahead and prove what a fool he was.​

"You fucked up."​

As soon as the word slipped out of his mouth Ira was done talking. He reached his arm out and latched his hand onto Pia's horn. The grin on Pia's face quickly turned into a grimace as Ira grasped one of her horns. She should have known that talk wasn't going to affect the brute and instead it seemed to incite him to anger. Her eye squinted shut on the side of the horn Ira had grabbed and both of her ombre hued hands moved to grasp his wrist tightly, "leave it to the fool to jump straight to violence." she growled through clenched teeth as she used Ira's arm as leverage to lift the lower half of her body and swung her legs up in an effort to kick Ira square in the jaw.​

Ira saw the kick coming and gritted his teeth and tensed his core, enduring through the blow and immediately afterwards continued with his assault. Pia's grin returned to her gentle features as she saw Ira brace himself and stoically take the kick. Ira roared as he lifted Pia in the air with one arm and slammed her into the ground, creating a huge crater and turning the greenhouse into a modern art masterpiece. She couldn't help but release an abrupt laugh as he roared, though she did squint her eyes shut, both of her legs being raised once again as she wrapped them around Ira's arm. When he slammed her onto the ground she drew in a sharp intake of air, her own teeth clenching as she gasped, her back arching for a moment as she bore the pain of the hit.She only had a moment to regain her composure and was barely able to begin breathing normally again when Ira grabbed her other horn, her white eyes opened, gray pupils focusing on his face, a mildly wild look in her eyes that seemed to tell Ira that he was playing right into her hands.​

He may have her in a tight spot, but she'd soon have him in a hot one as her hands began to light up against the flesh of his arm with her healing ability which proved to only burn if there was no injury to heal.

Light magic, the bane of any demon, began to sear through Ira's skin. Well the bane of any demon except for Pia that is. Pia was blessed by the fact that her grandmother was a demon that often tried to eat the sun and was unaffected by the light, it was the only thing that had allowed for Pia to exist. Of course she had never contemplated it, but it was likely that if she hadn't the heritage she did, she might be in constant pain.

Ira attempted to bottle in the pain and advance onwards but like an orc trying to be sober, he just couldn't hold it in. "AHHHHHH! DAMN IT!". Pia only watched Ira as he tried to remain stalwart beneath the burning sensation her magic caused him, an amused grin remaining on her face and evolving into laughter as he cursed over the pain, finally faltering beneath the spell.Suddenly, mana began to surge around his hands healing his wounds as they burned.

Ira was using the practically endless amounts of mana from the Dark Kingdom to power his abilities. Ira could now tolerate the pain and decided it was best to take the fight somewhere else.

Pia's laughter was short lived as he began to heal, her smile morphing into a subtle pout, "cheater," she said sulkily only moments before she was lifted in the air, her body tightening against Ira's arm before it went slack once she was struck against the mostly shattered remains of the greenhouse that were strewn all over the dirt floor and uprooted plants where the building once stood, the impact of her body on the ground once again decimating the now unprotected plants that had either been unearthed or destroyed all together.

Once again Pia grimaced, the pain making her body feel shattered, she drew in a shuddering breath of air as her body tensed and before she could recover, she was being lifted by her ankles, the length of her gown flowing limply around her torso as her bare legs were exposed before she was carelessly thrown. Immediately afterwards, everything caved in and fell onto Ira.​

All she could do was ball up and keep from hitting herself on any of the steel beams that were still left standing after the brief bout. Her body rotated in the air and she breathed deeply, trying to regain her calm and focus even though neither were very necessary because what she was about to do was instinctual.

Her teeth were still clenched and her ears ringing from the blow she had just taken, but as she was falling, her hands quickly slipped off the bangles that encircled her arms, only moments after they were removed her skin took on a scaly appearance and her size began to increase. As her body expanded and her skin's texture changed, her somewhat angelic features also changed, becoming less Human in appearance and more dragon-like. A second set of horns grew behind her first set and the nails of her toes and fingers turned white and elongated, becoming claws. If that wasn't enough, feathers sprouted at the backs of her limbs and she grew three sets of wings, the only thing remaining of her original appearance being her tail, her hair, and her curved ram horns.

She didn't touch the ground again once she was changed, only the tattered remnants of the gown she had been wearing floated down to the desecrated earth. Her serpentine form darting up in the air before spiraling in the direction of the dueling grounds, her wings creating large gusts of wind as she went.​

The towering behemoth rose from the rubble with ease. Ira checked above his head and to his pleasure, saw Pia heading straight for the dueling grounds which brought an ecstatic smile to his face.

"A perfect place to wrap this all up."

Ira then jumped out the crater and spirit rushed while in mid air, heading straight for the dueling grounds. When he arrived there, Pia was no where to be found. "I was sure I threw her in this direction" Ira mumbled.
Arriving at the dueling grounds after Ira, her wings undulated one set after the other keeping her hovering and minimizing the wind they were kicking up before, seeing that Ira was not facing her, she released a deafening roar that shook the ground below.

He began to scan the area for area for any craters or signs of impacts, but nothing was to be found. "Where is sh- ARHHHAHHH!!!" Ira was interrupted by an extremely powerful roar. Ira turned his head towards the commotion and saw a enormous dragon heading towards his vicinity.

"She transformed?!

Ira said with a bizarre look on his face. He didn't think that this fight was going to be so serious. "Alright then lets do this" Ira murmured cockily. The air around the titan began to scream as the ether in the area began to circle around Ira, pulsating as if it were alive. As if that wasn't enough Ira also began to use his own mana in addition to The Dark Kingdoms. The tips of the blue mana surrounding Ira began to turn purple while he was channeling the energy around his body.

To Ira's reaction to her roar, she couldn't help but be amused, though it was rather difficult to laugh or smile in her current form so instead she released a series of short and deep sounds that seemed like a mixture between grunts and a growls and resonated from within her chest. Her now much larger, heavier, and distinctly more muscular form lowered to the ground stirring up the fog that constantly engulfed the Dark Kingdom lands, causing the mist to swirl around her dragon-like body. The look on Ira's face only added to her enjoyment, her white eyes, the gray parts having turned pink and her pupils elongated vertically, focused intently on him as the timid sun peeked from behind the veil of dark clouds that seemed to endlessly try to subdue its shine and glinted off of her shimmering pink scales at intervals depending on how the fog moved around her.

She hadn't forgotten the destruction this seemingly unthinking lout had caused to the gardens, and that fact was evident as she lowered to her haunches and sat there somewhat proudly with her long tail switching in agitation behind her, the appendage rising and falling back to the ground with soft thumps that caused light puffs of dirt to raise from the land.

Of course whatever reason that Pia was annoyed was irrelevant at the moment considering what Ira was doing.

Her eyes began narrowing on him as her front half lowered to the ground, her body repositioning as all of her feet were placed flat, her claws digging into the earth as her body compacted, her muscles tensing up in preparation to lunge for Ira.

All at once her clawed feet pressed into the ground, pushing her forward as she dashed for the Ape Demon, Ira might not be able to notice, but her mouth was curled up at the sides ever so slightly in what had to have been her best attempt at a smile as she headed straight for him.
Ira stared straight at her and reacted back to her charge with an immensely fully powered spirit rush, ground shaking, pulse pounding.​

 

[Barbas]

Streggan

Location: The Prancing Squig



Within the noisy, Orky bar known as the Prancing Squiq, a trio of short, foul tempered Goblins could be seen sitting at a table, each holding a mug of Ork Fungus beer, which they occasionally took a
sip of while they impatiently looked around for something. After a few moments went by, the left Goblin questions the slightly larger one sitting next to him. "Oi, boss. When'z dat wizard ya 'ired
comin'?" Which was immediately responded with a smack to the head. " How da 'ell am I supposed to know dat, ya stupid git?! He only told me dat he would meet me at dis crummy bar. Now quite yer
yammering or else I'll tear yer bloody tongue out!" The head Goblin than smacks the smaller Goblin once more before turning his attention to the bar's front door.

But just as that was happening, a strange, somewhat unconformable presence suddenly enters the bar as a man wearing an unusual-looking mask walks in. Briefly looking scanning the room, the masked man begins walk towards the end of the bar, stopping only to shove a human knight who was standing in front of him out of his way. The masked man than walks over to the Goblins' table and sits in a chair across from the trio. " Please excuse my tardiness, Skibitz. I had to deal with a rather important matter that required my immediate attention."

 

[Wandering Grim Hollow]

Grandmistress Hyraena Une
Location: Oceanian Waters​

"More ships to port, Gran'mistress! We got a 'ole fockin' fleet surroundin' us!" The loud cry of the lookout was drowned out by the loud splashes of ballista bolts striking the water close to the ship. Lady Une simply stood, glaring at the ships that dare attacked her. A stoic figure among the crew, she was angry for a number of reasons. Firstly, there are pirates who dare to sail this close to Oceania expecting to get off easily. Second, she recognized the lead ship with its grey hull and ash sails. It was the Hyraena's Revenge, the ship of a Captain Alexander Morgan. Lastly, the pirates dare to fly the colours of the League.

"Stand fast men! This is simply a fair fight! READY TEMPEST BOLTS! SHOW THESE SEA DOGS WHO RULES THE SEA!" The Grandmistress' order was met with swift action. The sounds of ballistas being readied could be heard below deck as Lady Une strode along the top deck. Her expression was calm, serene even but her slow deliberate breaths betrayed her true emotions. Unbridled fury.

"Port ballistas ready, Cap'n!" A gunner called out. Lady Une raised an arm. "Starboard bolts, fire!"

40 Years Ago
Location: New Haven​

"May I offer my humblest congratulations, Milady. For your new position as Grandmistress." A suave young man congratulated the new Grandmistress who simply waved it off with a small chuckle.

"Oh come off it, Lex. I'm going to be a very busy woman soon!" Hyraena joked, brushing a lock of her hair aside as she put the report aside. Her usually tired features seemed to light up as the man locked the door behind him before approaching her desk with a swagger. Hyraena hid her smile behind a new report as Alexander happily perched himself on the desk's edge, playfully picking up a report to read. Hyraena couldn't help but roll her eyes in amusement before trying to resume her work.

"Hm.... This is all very dull, Rae. I'd rather be out on the sea again than stay locked up here!" Alexander declared, throwing his arms apart like the showman he is.

"Oh please Lex. We'll be out to sea sooner than you think. It seems with the war dying down, there should be a meeting of sorts I have to attend. And it sounds bori-!!" Hyraena's complaints were silenced with a sudden kiss.

"Oh hush, Darling.... Let's enjoy our time together before that time comes then...."

Present Day​

"Hahahaaaa! Burn, you bastards! We showed 'em, Gran'mistress!" A Tempest gunner cheered over the loud roar of the flame weapon. Over the loud roar, one can hear the sounds of people burning or boiling alive as the green flame stuck ate through the ship's hull or burned on the ocean's very surface. Lady Une almost pitied the poor fools who jumped into the burning sea in a futile attempt to escape the flames. Almost. Through the flames, Lady Une spotted her final target. The mostly undamaged Hyraena's Revenge.

"Leave their flagship alone. Its mine. Yuna, command the ship until I return." Lady Une ordered her First Mate before stepping up and over the ship's side. She dove into the water feet first before rising on a sheet of ice. She made an impressive and awe-inspiring sight as she walked on a growing trail of ice, parting the flaming waters as she approached the untouched ship. Her eyes locked onto it with a steely glare, never once breaking even as ballista bolts struck close.

"No quarter for traitors.... Only the sea will accept their foul souls...." Lady Une muttered as she focused her power, forcing the sea to listen to her will. A gout of green flame streaked towards Lady Une before being halted by a wall of sea water. As the rogue crew attempted to sail away, they found their progress to be slowed by a series of water tendrils that seemed to be holding the ship onto place. A panic began spreading among the crew as they attempted to hack away the water tendrils.

"What's the matter with you lot! Aren't they any Water Magic users among this bloody crew! Sever the tendrils or I'll-!"
"Oh what, you traitor...? You'll force them overboard?" The rogue Captain's threat was cut short by the steely voice of Lady Une as she stood on a pillar of sea water. The look of tranquil fury in her eyes as she glared down at the Captain. She barely even blinked when he attempted to kill her with a bolter shot. One she simply caught with a water tendril before launching it at the fool's knee.

"Now that you can't run... I shall purge this ship of traitors..."

29 Years Ago
Location: New Haven​

"Hamilton. Hamilton Morgan-Une shall be his name." The proud and middle aged Alexander gently carried his month old son as Hyraena looked on from her bed. She simply smiled weakly as she took in the sight. The man she loved the most carrying their child in his arms.

"He's a fiesty one... And he has a good set of lungs... His crying kept me up all night..." Hyraena complained, pouting slightly. Alexander chuckled softly as he listened to her complaints. No doubt their private time together being the only time she can vent instead of putting on that stern mask of indifference she usally had.

"I'm sure he'll grow up to be a fine child. And a handsome one too, he has my eyes and dashing nose after all." Alexander's joke brought a smile to Hyraena's face. She was glad to finally have a child. One that might be able to continue her legacy should he prove himself. But for now, the only thing in her mind is wanting Alexander to stay for just a while longer.

"Lex... Will you...?"
"Hush now, Love. I'll be here for as long as you want me to. For you and for little Hamilton here. Ah, he's smiling!" Alexander's surprised gasp made Hyraena giggle softly. In that moment, she decided that moments like this is the true meaning of happiness while wondering if someone like her truly deserved to feel such happiness.

Present Day​

"P-please Grandmistress I-I can explain!" A pale and bloodied man begged as he was suspended off the edge of the Illucidator by a water tendril wrapping around his feet. His begging was met with jeers as Lady Une glared at him with a murderous intent. If anything, his begging seemed to have angered her further.

"Explain? There is nothing to explain. You betrayed your Captain and crew for a sack of gold. Admit it scum, you simply let your greed think for you. But I'll tell you this... That betrayal will be the last mistake you will ever make in this world." Lady Une hissed, pulling a Tempest grenade from her hip pouch. As she lit the fuse, the man's eyes widened with fear as he began thrashing, panicking as he begged and pleaded for mercy. Lady Une ignored his pleas, casting the fellow into the sea before lobbing the Tempest grenade into the water. Among the splashes, one can hear the sounds of the poor soul both drowning and screaming, or attempt to, in pain as the fire burned and boiled him alive. Lady Une simply stared at the spectacle like how one would look at a log burning as the crew remained silent.

"Set course for home. I'll be in my cabin and I do not wish to be disturbed." Lady Une ordered her waiting crew. As the first mate began shouting orders, Lady Une retreated into her cabin. After the doors were shut, Lady Une sat at her desk. Tossing her hat aside in frustration, she stared at the different items on her desk. Reports, charts, an old clock she got from a friend, before her eyes fell on a smooth stone sitting by the ink pot.

41 Years Ago
Location: New Haven​

"So I heard that you might be the new Grandmaster, oh excuse me, GrandMISTRESS. What a joy!" A suave young sailor joked as Hyraena rested her head on his lap. The tired and bruised selkie groaned and weakly nudged the chuckling Alexander.

"Oh come off it, Lex... I'm too tired to think about it.... Oh curse that old man...." Hyraena complained as Alexander gently stroked her curly hair. Hyraena secretly enjoyed the affection the young man is showing her. Despite the fact that she is decades older than him too. Speaking of which, she had this thought swimming through her head.

"Lex.... Be honest with me... You agreed to be my lover despite myself being decades older, correct?"
"Indeed."
"And I did warn you that I'll happily dump you when you grow old, correct?"
"While you show off your youthful looks, yup."
"So why did-"

"So you are wondering why I said yes, no?" Hyraena looked up at the smiling lad and simply nodded after he guessed her question correctly. To her surprise, Alexander began laughing.

"Oh forgive me, Raena. Its such a silly thing to ask! The answer is simply because.... I love you too much to give a damn." That answer caused Hyraena to blush slightly, getting up to a sitting position. "Of course that's your answer.... Damn foolish young one you are, indeed!"

"Foolish I may be but I am a fool in love. In fact... I have a present for you. Behold!" Alexander happily produced a particularly smooth sea stone. To Hyraena's shock, she recognized the pattern on the stone as being similar to the ones found by Kraken Bay. "Where... How... You better had not risked your life just for this gift, you fool!"

"I'd knew you like it! Think of it as a symbol of my... No, OUR love."

Present Day​

"Symbol of our love.... Lex you damned fool...." Lady Une muttered, thinking back to that day years back. Reaching for the stone, she could feel the tears begin to flow. She picked up the stone, feeling the smoothness under her fingertips as her emotions began to leak through her stoic mask before allowing herself some time to mourn and weep for Captain Alexander Morgan's passing.

Overseer Connor Hastings
Location: Fire Kingdom Border​

"Something the matter, Overseer?" Riven, a fellow Selkie Blackscale asked Connor as he noticed him stopping for a moment. Connor stood still, feeling the dry wind blow as he gazed into the distance. He wondered for a moment as to why he felt... sad?

"Its nothing Riven. Come, we have still have some distance to cover." Connor or rather, Hamilton said as he resumed his trek through the foreign and dry land.

 

[Elephantom]

MARKAS MALIVAN
Markas Malivan, ill-reputed soldier of fortune, gritted his teeth. If there was anything worse than the heat of the fire kingdom — a sudden departure from frozen seas and subsequent exposure to cracked deserts could leave anyone disoriented — it was the fact that you were going to get killed. That the saint of luck, whatever her name was, wasn't siding with you. That wasn't a simple fact, not at all.

Malivan's hirsute hand skimmed near the well-oiled, oxhide sheath of his dagger, and lingered there for a while. He was frowning, his skin pale and pulled taut over his face, and he was also sweating, which wasn't strange for a sunny day such as this. The sun was argent, only just faintly hidden under a thin veil of clouds, shedding the whole city in a tangerine-red tint, with a duodenum of drab shades provided by the mud-buildings. The baking daylight wasn't, however, enough to bother Malivan.

There was a good reason for it too.

Up the darkened alleyway, approached a troika of men. Three men, and upon a closer view, just a frontman backed by two other men — discernable in that the two were different to the leader.

To an everyday aristocrat, it was just a pedestrian routine, as ordinary as peasantry, but this wasn't rightly the case here. The alleyway wad a clear dead end, and this was De'ag, a notorious city. A city where everybody kept to themselves, weapons concealed, hands quivery. People don't mean to approach anyone out of curiosity here — they either mean business or trouble. Malivan knew that, but disquieting was the fact that assaults were a common day-to-day incident in De'ag, as ordinary as the chatter of birds. And the chatter of birds weren't going to be enough to drown out this assault.

Muggers, people getting mugged, were typical in the lower-half squalor of the fire kingdom's southern ports, where De'ag was. The city was made up of craggy lands, flush with cliffs with narrow openings that lead to the main shoreline — sand, beige-white with a silvery tincture, and more sand. A dozen sandcrawlers here and there, reams of them swarming in the uncharted rocky canyons that flank the upper cities. The occasional explorer-zoologist made their way to the canyon, on a monthly basis or so, never to return again — these days, mercenaries and locals don't even bother to accompany those stupid souls.

De'ag made a living by its ports, the orc-made structures jutting out awkwardly from the precipices, navigable by stratified floors which lead from the sea-soaring docks to the upper cities. The ambiance was soothing from afar, not tranquil but reminiscent of the earlier days of this world: the zig-zagged hymn of the shore-birds melding with the sound of the sea crashing against the rocky shores, and the chorus of sails fluttering, and small boats clambering slowly through the emerald sea, and the echoing drawl of the sailors, and so on.

Houses close to the shore stood on rock stilts, to evade the watery waves, and docks on longer, shaped stone ingots, all reinforced with conventional iron or stone. The upper cities were made up of sandstone buildings and stunted fortresses and outposts — some were forgotten and long abandoned, some weren't. From afar, it was a humble, ideal place. Not so much from up close.

The roads, blackened by a patina of ashen soot, mixed well with the few dozens of chapels and bounty offices interspersed throughout the city. The houses were made out of sandstone all right, reddish-ochre speckled with blacks and shades of grey. Surrounding the city of De'ag was a huge wall that separated it from its surrounding boroughs — in the instance the city is captured or besieged, and upon which instance, either of them, the gates would be closed. The humans, a majority in the city, here were either trooper-for-hires or officials, the orcs tasked with lording over the commoners and patrolling the streets, and most others make a living through working, sailing or fishing. In other words, most others were the commoners. Although Markas wasn't.

The bounty offices, which kept the notice boards and official papers regarding fugitive-hunting, were rather distinct in their appearance — neither did they succeed in appearing coy, which was initially a planned feature, nor did they intermix with the rest of the sand buildings. All metal, black and sallow, with peaked heads and intricately-crafted roofs that distinguish it from its fetid environs. Other than the simple yet ferric doorway, thick wood married with metal clamps, and the guards, there were no other forms of security. Though, some of them, especially the ones nearer to the docks, had fences — crude, spiked walls that went around the buildings and conjoined towards the front, with the external gateway for a buckle.

While the orcs were stupid, admittedly, they were good with metals. Junk, but metal nonetheless.

As of now, there were more pressing matters. Not strange at all for a city like De'ag.

The mercenary, Malivan, was a hardy man all right. If anything, he was stronger than most men. He was born in Elysium, in the more richer districts of the southern division; tossed from womb to a noble-enough family. While he bested even the most vain nobles in terms of facial appearance, indeed, the nifty soldier also held the mark of a true northerner: harsh facial bristle, which he had managed to fashion into a glossy curly moustache, in accordance with trending fashions in Elysium; misty grey eyes, both magnetic and fearsome, and fixed to perennial sharpness; an angular face, near architectural in its incisiveness, that bears both class and an underlying savagery.

Setting aside his largely northern looks, he also held a dozen or so southern traits: a romantically-sculpted nose, complimented by a deuce of arching eyebrows, and a pale dark complexion reminiscent of most searrine dwellers; a royal mane of hair, which runs down wildly but always above his receding hairline, showing off his forehead. And, ultimately, a cultured, smart smile that fades smoothly towards both its end and beginning — he has yet to find any worth in it, aside from wooing women over to his cause and bed.

All in all, it did the job right.

Markas' father was a treasurer, while his mother was a lowly noble. Both met at a southern sector — by the naval titan, the duchy of Raserre, which controlled the lowermost peak of Elysium — where his father was assigned to after a series of shady transfers, and where his mother lived since birth.

His father was a meek man, dreamy and quizzical, who acted exclusively in favour of his own well-being and his family — often the latter than the former, for he loved his kith and kin, and his sons, and his wife, and so on. It made him seem like a coward of sorts, with his diluted eyes, and his curly smile. Verily, the odd fellow could be seen as a weakling, and many did see him as a weakling, but Markas himself liked to think of him as a passive man. Or at worst, a pragmatist. The man knew what to do ensure his survival, or the betterment of his living, even if it meant kissing up to people — not the most ideal nord, but he did the job right.

When it came to luminosity, Markas' father was scarcely the zealous believer people believed him to be; he was bearably faithful, but never more than that. He used to say it was a kind of sham religion, at the same time following it. Sometimes used to admit his hypocrisy too. Then again, he was as honest as a honest worker could be. Although, solely to his own family and at no time to the daily so-and-so. A good man.

Markas' relationship with his father was good too. Good enough. It wasn't spoken of freely, and they both preferred limiting their conversation to the necessities, but Markas knew that his father knew and he knew it himself.

Markas' mother was, more or less, similar in nature to his father. The only difference being was her streak of pomposity, which contrasted against his father's enduring humility — could be interpreted as a wanton need to keep himself hidden, could be part of his miserable act of cowardice. Nevertheless, it was a byproduct of her life in a vaguely noble family trying to keep their watered-down bloodline still relevant. Just toss your head back up, and walk like you mean it — that woman did just that, till the day she succumbed to death. Her pride was hers to keep, and she bared it freely for everyone to see. And for that, Markas admired her, and respected her too, but affections came the last in his mind. A clash of interests, if Malivan were to be asked about it.

Markas Malivan, aged somewhere in his early forties and stunned by the intortion of timelines, stepped back. His sense of direction had been distorted by his abrupt, unneeded trance, but he was used to them by now. Few things really surprised the quasi-southerner. The mercenary squinted at the approaching group, whom were fixedly close. The light, or whatever pitiful stray light had managed to reach the hairline gap, cast them in more clarity.

The leader, for he led the men, carried the burden of a crooked back and the height of a dwarf — traits which made him look more older than could've been, although Markas could swear the crook had linings running across his face, which disrupted his contours. His lips were bulbous and halved, revealing his murky-yellow teeth, surpassed in rank by a nose, rotund and ugly, and a pair of swollen eyes. He had bushy eyebrows, slicked hair swept back in layered waves, and ears that stuck out too far from his head. A permanent sneer was fixed on his face.

A heavyset, olive-skinned man with aquiline features — and an elongated nose that might've appeared handsome if not for the many scars that ran through them — followed the leader, staying strictly to the left. He was broad-shouldered and bare-skinned, showing off his sinewy musculature and wiry upper limbs, except for a simple felt trouser that were clipped to the shins and a pair of rugged sandals. His bare chest was hairy, but the dim-black meshed well with the olive skin.

The man on the right lacked armour, relying on a taut, midnight blue greatcoat that scantly fit him — both in terms of vanity and size. The coat clung dearly to his flabby skin. The belts, and which held the buttons, swayed and limped. The portly man had a nigh enormous pot belly which, Markas presumed, would neither fit armour nor any sort of clothing. And which, the mercenary also assumed, was why he had to rely on an inadequate clothing article. He had an absurdly thick neck, nearly melding with his chin, and jowls that vibrated at the merest of movements. His eyes were set deep into his sockets, and he had a distinct lack of both eyebrows and hair. Queer tattoos decorated his unclad cranium.

The trio, all of them and barring few, were armed with warped eyes and gore-clubs — and which were oddly festive to the likes of Markas, though the one on the left remained passive. The blood that stained on their weapons suggested that they were a bit too eager to use their arsenal, and had already used them. Viscerally.

Markas' sarcastic drollery was surpassed by the slew of dread and fright he had in store, and to him, it wasn't good at all — in one way it was, and such a remark would've been coming from the mouth of his still-alive father, but it still made a bad impression. It was seldom gentle to his looks. His lips split apart, revealing his bared teeth, in a terribly-posed grimace. One could also interpret it as a frown of sorts.

The fact, however portrayed with or without expression, was simple: it was a single dagger against three clubs.

‘A fuckin' stupid death.’ Markas was a cynical man, and he had no qualms about his less-than-ideal outlook on life — acrimony was prevalent in his occupation, and some even took to writing their will and testament, in advance, before marching to battles. Malivan was a skilled fighter, but more than that, he was a gambler: people survive more through luck than through empty prowess, and he had witnessed it time and time again during his more turbulent days. Then it became one of his principles.

Of course, there are the gods too, blessed with saintly powers and an amaranthine ambry of otherworldly kismet, but they don't stoop to help their accidental creations.

Such was the way of life.

The gore-club is a weapon that exudes a menacing — and at the same time, bland — aura. It's a common armament, lightweight and cheap to make, and can be seen in the hands of bush league goons due to its simple appearance. Its image and its demeanour, both, caters to the taste of the common man, favouring utility over hauteur. The wood-and-iron mace can be prove to be deadly even in the hands of an amateur, rendered easy to use with a handle that slants as it reaches the top, giving a less-needed heft to the enlarged head. However inessential it is, as staves do exist, it still allows for more force to be put to blows and swings at the expense of speed. It is necessary to mention that the weapon is useful especially against armour, where the spike-laden head can penetrate through brittle plates.

This weapon had its origins rooting from the De'ag, where the olden patrolmen — orcish or otherwise — were sighted carrying around these custom-made clubs. Could've been simply for the fear effect.

The height of the bludgeon differs from place to place and man to man, but is usually less than two feet or so. The goon on the center carried a superlative exception, one that was roughly three feet in height and towered his scrawny build. A certain oddity, but principles were being followed. The peak of a gore-club perpetually comes with a metal ring riveted and bound around the usually flat beak — or in this case, brass — with lethal, reasonably sized spikes protruding from around the axis of the metal band, hence the name.

“Oy, ignorante,” the hunchbacked geezer sputtered out, his drawl making it hard to discern his voice. It was a strange choice of words, calling a random stranger stupid, but some idiots don't change. Idiocy is rampant in the fire kingdom, Markas discerned, hypocrisy more so.

The other two lagged behind the leader, loitering off the pace, weapons slack in their hands. At first glance, one could speculate about their apparent passivity, or their lazy lack of initiative. Though, Markas noticed that they blocked the entrance to the alleyway, in their attempts to shirk out of their work — in waiting or because they were truly dull, that Markas couldn't apprehend.

The mercenary — Markas Malivan, age forty and one, in case you forgot — inched forward, leaning first to the left and then to the right, getting a good grasp of the scenario. The environment happened to guard an abundance of stinking garbage, moldy food, and rusty junk. The walls of the buildings, which hunched eerily over the dead-end pathway and gave it a spangled shade, were made of adobe bricks. The road was simply sand, dirt and gravel beaten together and treated over to resemble a firm path. The walls had windows on them, but Markas was quick to squash any jabs of his own at hope — a thick curtain separated them from the actual world, and it would've been unlikely of them to just go and help another unfortunate stranger. That, or the houses belonged to any three of them. There were chances, slight, but it existed.

The curved knave was closer now, his canter jittery. The man was undeniably fast, Markas had to admit. His two accomplices, in the back, were still in their position, with Olive leaning against the mossy wall, and Fat acting as the primary, yet stolid, rampart.

‘Two bruisers, and a geezer. All clubs. Narrow space. Shit.’ One versus three usually doesn't bode well for the former, especially with a crude weapon such as daggers.

“Juz-” the geezer paused, “leave yer shit behin-”

The geezer ambled forward, stuttering as he tried to control the stream of his drool. His gait, Markas noticed, was clipped and blocky. He had problems with his mouth too, and which additionally served to be a speech impediment. A severe one. It was a pathetic sight, distracting but more so to the owner of it.

Eventually, Markas' wits came back to his head. This was a good window for a quick strike or three. A good window it was. A good, good window, Markas found himself muttering.

The mercenary darted forward, feet slipping against the dusty pavement as he bought down the edge of his elbow upon the geezer's drooping face. The audible crack of teeth filled the formerly silent livery, followed by the short yelp of a man too surprised to exclaim properly. A gasp from the fat one came after the initial two sounds. All jagged to the ears. The mercenary doubted Fat could get a good view of the action, but it didn't hurt to imagine.

Markas looked at the reeling geezer, who was now clutching his face in pain, yelling and cursing.

‘Probably should've just left my shit behind.’ Most men did just that. Most men except the magnificent mercenary, Markas Malivan, himself.

“Fuck.” The mercenary murmured. His elbow ached, a biting pain shaking up his nerves every few seconds. The geezer wrenched back again, not from pain but from the fear of it, blood spouting down from his nose. His spittle had turned pink-and-red from the influence of blood.

‘Forty. Fifty if the Saint-whoever-governs-luck decides to side with me.’ Markas did his best to cloak his fear with the impression of bravery. It was a bare, rough performance legible only for its amusement factor, but then again, Markas never was a good actor.

Southerners were good actors. His mother was a good actor. He never was a good actor.

‘A fucking stupid death, indeed.’

The mercenary, rather than making a run for it — and which would've been stupid, considering the advantageous positions of the two alley-men — took hold of the geezer's grimy collar. It stank of a liberal mixture of sweat, stale alcohol, and a cocktail of bodily fluids.

From the far corners of his peripherals, Markas could see the two burly men making way for him. They were slow, but they were coming all right; arms tensed, weapons ready, and sporting more-than-deadly glares. The geezer clearly paid them well. Or maybe, they didn't spot his dagger yet. Yet.

‘Two seconds, five perhaps.’ Markas estimated their arrival with a run-off-the-mill calculation. His father was a treasurer, and one of the first things he learned, aside from basic language, was mathematics and probability. The latter he perfected during his trooper days. How glorious those days were; Markas couldn't help but reminisce about those valiant years, but clearly now wasn't the time for that.

The geezer was belting out repetitious commands, his voice drowning under copious amounts of blood, courtesy to a strong smack from Markas' knuckles. The mercenary yanked his hand back again, unfurling it, before lashing out. The furious whip, scarcely visible to the eye, smashed against the geezer's cheeks — enough to send him tumbling towards the clutter of garbage, with a feeble howl and enough tremolo to knock the wind out of someone.

The geezer fell, on faltering feet, into an open garbage bin, his two hose-covered legs, fitted with unseemly clogs, jutting out from the putrid mess.

Markas let out a triumphant scoff, before turning and facing the entrance of the alleyway.

The unshorn clod, Olive, was now edging nearby. He was much faster than what the mercenary had originally discerned him to be — and which was a sluggish, indecisive bastard, much like all ordinary hooligans. Much to Markas' dismay, Olive was neither langorous nor was he wishy-washy, by any means.

Olive didn't hold his weapon before him, his back was arched and his weapon held in a flimsy manner, but what he intended do with it was a lucid fact: the boor was planning to pounce upon him, the sole mercenary here, and the advantages happened to be clearly on his side. He had a far-reaching club, and he looked as if he knew how to use it, whilst Markas had a dagger of which he held only a median amount of knowledge. A very crude dagger.

As it was, Markas happened to be a gambler, not the most truest nor the most skilled of fighters.

The mercenary ably slid out his dagger. The dull scratch of metal against tough leather was warming to the ears. Malivan held it, sealed his fingers around it and gripped the leatherbound handle tight, and waved it around, never forgetting to oscillate it to and fro the air and between his fingers. A steady stance. Markas made sure to swivel between his slant every now and then — a necessary factor in fights. He hadn't removed his cloak, as he had no wish to reveal his choice of armour; not that it would make any difference against the vicious blows of a gore-club.

The clod winced, his passive temperament returning at a following instance. This slight moment of confusion provided a good aperture for more violence. Markas grinned — it was a sloppy grin, lopsided and favouring the right over the left — and promptly reacted by darting forward.

His father always used to say he was a quick boy.

Olive brought down his club in a sickle-shaped arc, which Markas caught with the shaft of his dagger. The flash of metal touching against metal, throwing flickers of sparks scattering amidst the dusky atmosphere. The mercenary hooked his dagger around one of the gore-club's spikes, surprising the boor, before diverting it to the ground. Bringing it up, as Markas knew from experience, would be more difficult than bringing it down. The savage struggled with the abrupt distraction, but he lacked the experience of the old mercenary, who inched forward and plunged his dagger towards his exposed neck. It was only an attempt, however, as the boor brushed past the strike.

The dagger fell upon Olive's forearms, scouring its surface. It was only a skimming slash, good for pain but not much else. The mercenary stepped away.

A minor sacrifice for a larger opportunity, Markas mused, both essential and smart. The mercenary lunged around the pain-stricken hoodlum, aiming his dagger again for his open back. The dagger hit naught but air, and the mercenary jerked around, stepping back simultaneously. The boor had evaded his blow again.

Markas started back, more tenacity in his stance. He was dumbfounded. ‘Back to square one. Fuck me.’

The mercenary watched the clod put up a defenses again, staggering to his feet, weapon in one hand now. Markas lunged again for a burst strike, on the tip of his toe and on his edge, throwing a feint towards the lower-left side of his opponent. Olive forced his club towards the direction of the dagger, forcing Markas to parry. A hard nail; parry, feint, sidestep. Olive retreated back, jerking his shoulder away from imminent danger, bearing the entire weight of his club upon the dumbstruck Malivan.

The club flew past his side, the mercenary having given the slip, allowing him to grab the clod's fighting hand. Careful not to give Olive the opportunity of a retreat again, the mercenary plummeted his dagger deep into the clod's fighting hand. Blade against flesh, tearing through muscle fibres and puncturing the bones. Olive let out a thick yell, short-lived as Malivan delivered his coup-de-grace with a stab to the head. Through the skull and deep into the cranial innards. Rusty but a one-track killer, Markas mused, no medicine for this guy. Blood discharged from the wound, a nigh gracious fountain though not for the iron-rich smell, as soon as Markas brought away his dagger.

Fortunately, the mercenary was smart enough to sidestep from the continuous projectile's direction.

The mercenary let out a soft sigh, turning towards the fat man.

There wasn't any — he had fled from the scene.

Markas coughed, glanced back at the rigid corpse, before walking away with a hoarse, grating laughter. Another day in his life, another day survived without pissing. Truly amusing.

 

[shadowz1995]

The world was swirling and tumbling to the brute, who held onto his seat for dear life, never in such a stupor before in his life.
"Ah fink dat. . . I'z gonna be sick ta me stomak Desh." He croaked, punctuating his sentence with a loud belch before almost slumping over the table, his drink spilling over the brim of the crude homemade cup and onto the ground, where various other fluids joined together and slipped into the cracks of the floor.

"Donnn' you dare pass out on me you ugly son of a shroommm." The demon king slurred as he attempted to smack the orc into sobriety but only ended up missing, throwing himself off balance, and face planting the table. Deshwitat started to laugh at the fact that he fell on the table in such a way as if it was the funniest thing ever, "You still gotta talk bizzzne wih me."

A burp that propelled him from the table with the sheer force of the rapidly exiting gas woke him up again, forcing him to blink his eyes in a rather quick manner, from the various flecks that drifted about the room the the varying sources of ork. "Whaddya, whaddya, wot?" He blabbered, rather confused on where he was at the current moment, or why his left cheek was so wet. "We wuz doin' bizznizz or sumfink roight?"

"Yeh....you called meh out 'ere. Why?"

"Ah!" He perked up as a squig came by and bit into his foot, the sharp and pointy teeth of it puncturing the cloth boots. "Ah, i'z call ya ta. . . uh..."
The warlord's head blanked for a minute. He had something on the tip of his tongue, and he had something he really wanted to say to Desh but he couldn't quite picture it. He trailed his 'uh' a little longer as his head swivled to the sight of two orks punching each other.

"That's what he wanted! "Me whontsta take on da Kingdom ov Panzees! Eh? Dem loight folk keep takin' me metaluz fer some reesun. No idear, so oi wuz finkin we'z jus smash 'em! Yoo'z an' oi can split da loot fiftee fiftee, whottya say?"

The drunken demon perked, almost sobering at the conversation topic. "You.....listen 'ere. You ain' gonna attack em. The leader is a lil kid now. 'Sides. It wouldnt be any fun as they are now ya know?" Deshwitat didn't want a war. He just wanted to live in peace but war was coming. Regardless of who wanted it or not. War was on its way and he needed allies. The dark kingdom was strong but not strong enough survive a second onslaught from every kingdom.

"How bout dis....you watch mah back and ill watch yers. Yeh?"

"Wot doz dat even meen?" The brute asked confusedly. The concept of 'not war' doesn't make a lick of sense to the orks, at all. "Yeh, he may be a kiddo, but da fruit iz roipe fer da pickin', sweep en an' loot da whol' place." Though his face did have some remorse shown, feeding on the weak wasn't his strong point, nor did he really like doing so. But, it was in his nature. Feed on the weak, let those strong enough oppose him and take his spot, if they were truly worthy.

"Ah dinnae. I cannae jus' let da loight kingdum sit aroun' an' nawt get pummled. Mah boyz ar' restlez, dey needs dem a foight. No waagh, an' da orkz ar' done for."

"Daaaat wah is comin' my friend. But I dun wan to be the one tha starts the secon' big, big war. One was enough eh?" The demon's lulled to the side with a drunken hiccup before nearly passing out into the table as Grimgutz had.

"But if ya bois want, I can tak em on!"

He snorted, the Fire king, then broke out into hysterics. "Oi yeh, you're a funneh wahn eh Desh?" He attempted to straighten himself up before continuing his sentence. "Ah ain'tz gonna foight ya. I can' do dat. Ain' tradehshun ta foight me al-eyes, least fer me it ain't. Me boyz dun even know da wurd!" Another round of hysterics before he wiped a singular tear from his eye with his massive paw.

"Wot aboot erf kingdum, or da watah place or sumfink? Dey exist too, an' ahm sure they repelled a raid of moine at sum poin'."

"Plez Gutz. I dont want to go making enemies wit teh light walkers when I am tryin' to covince one o'er ere that we ain' so damn different, ya know?"

Regardless of whether or not the Ork knew, neither were going to be able to properly lay down any ground rules still remember what they said. There was one clear thing though. The fire kingdom and dark kingdom were on the same side for now. The fire kingdom, being the second greatest threat to the dark in military strength. It was a major worry off of his back, even if Desh did look forward to that fight.

Luckily, Demons didnt stay drunk long. Deshwitat gestured for the lady knight to follow to his pegasus. It wa going to be a long flight back but the midnight black steed knew the way even without his rider's direction.

Nogoodname (I cut short. Sorry it was takin far too lomg)